Game of Thrones Season 7
by Wemoleitch
Summary: The best Game of Thrones fanfiction on the internet. Period... What else is there to say?
1. Cersei I

**A Game of Thrones**

 **Season 7**

 **The Fanfiction**

* * *

Cersei

The Queen of The Seven Kingdoms strides through the streets of King's Landing with her Queensguard, the royal crown shining in the sunlight atop her cropped, blonde hair. Ser Gregor Clegane, The Mountain, lumbers in his golden armor with reserved menace, bloodshot eyes glaring out the slits of his helm. Slinking in the Queen's shadow is Qyburn, his slick, black haired head held higher than usual, the Hand of the Queen's badge pinned to his chest. Crowds of peasants part to the sides of the streets and alleyways. The Knights under Cersei's command push people aside who got in the way, spitting insults and threats. Even a pregnant woman is shoved onto her side in the gutter to make way for the Queen. As they pass, Ser Jaime Lannister steps over and helps the dirty pregnant woman back up. She shoots him a scared, child-like look without thanking him before waddling away. Queen Cersei notices her brother's act of kindness, and a smirk crawls across her face.

The Commonfolk are held in captive silence. Not even a whisper escapes them but Cersei can sense the fear in their hearts. Behind her the rattling of chains is the only sound on the street, followed by the occasional whimper and moan of pain from Septa Unella. The once proud torturer for the High Sparrow is dragged by a heavy, clinking chain wrapped around her throat. Her body is bare and covered with long whip-lashes, bruises, and burns. She had once owned an attractive, shapely body, but no more. Septa Unella had been shaved completely, like Cersei had been, her nakedness and baldness a sight for the city to behold. Unlike Cersei's walk of shame, however, there is no chanting of "Shame." and there is no outburst from the people watching. Everyone they pass by witnesses the septa and how her face hardly resembles a face anymore. None dare raise a hand or say a word. The Mountain drags the Septa the whole way down to the ruins of the Sept of Baelor where a crowd of thousands await.

Smoke from the wildfire explosion is still swirling up into the heavens from the rubble beyond, clouding the sky and giving the air a smell of putrid flesh and fire. Upon arrival Qyburn points to a wooden beam protruding from the side of a destroyed tower. "We can use that, my Queen. It should suffice." He gestures for The Mountain to bring Septa Unella forward. The giant of a man forces Unella toward the beam, who grunts and stumbles in response. Qyburn turns to the crowd of on-lookers and says in a loud, clear voice, "The woman you see before you has committed crimes against The Royal Family. Under Queen Cersei's rule, such criminals will not be granted a trial and will be sentenced to death."

Septa Unella trips and falls to her knee, landing in the rubble of stone, and the crowd gasps. Cersei watches with a bulge of enjoyment as The Mountain unmercifully tugs the Septa along, tossing the chain up and over the wooden beam. Nothing could take away from the sweet satisfaction Cersei feels as her loyal Knight pulls down hard on the chain and yanks Unella off her feet. Suspended in mid-air, Septa Unella gasps, gargles, and flails about, her eyes bulging with fear. Several people in the crowd turn away. Cersei never looks away, her eyes connected with the Septa who had once tortured and humiliated Cersei. _My face will be the last thing you see before you die. A Lannister always pays their debts._

Murmurs from the crowd follow the execution. Disapproving glares, fearful grimaces, and sheepish scowls compose the sea of people surrounding her. _Their fear is all that matters to me. These people… they're the very same people who once mocked me during my Walk of Shame. I hear their hateful screams in my nightmares even now, when I have all the power and they have none. Fear is the only way to control them._ Cersei notices Jaime watching her with the same look he gave her when he first returned to King's Landing on the day of her coronation.

Once back in the Red Keep, away from the public eye, Jaime goes to Cersei's room where The Mountain stands guard. He tells the giant to stand aside. The Mountain doesn't listen, his penetrating red stare bears down into his. Jaime growls with impatience, "Move or I'll have the Queen know you stood in my way."

The door opens behind him and Cersei appears, garbed in a red and gold night gown, without her crown. She commands Ser Gregor to step aside and he does so. "We need to talk." Jaime tells her as he sweeps past, the door groaning behind him.

"Clearly." Is all the Queen says and when he turns around her expression is that of cold resolve.

"What happened while I was gone? Tell me the truth." Jaime asks. _I wondered when he would._ "I've heard the rumors and I've seen the Sept for myself but I won't believe any of that until I hear it from you. Tell me what happened."

"Rumors?" Cersei smiles, her eyes shining, "Let me clear your conscience. You _should_ believe them. I blew up the Sept and everyone in it without batting an eye. I had The Mountain keep Tommen here in the keep where he was safe. When it was all over I found our son with his face caved in on the steps outside. He jumped before I could speak with him, no doubt after witnessing his wife and precious cult go up in green flames."

"How can you say that with such indifference? Our last son is _dead_!" Jaime steps away from her, head turning side to side, unable to believe his ears. "He knew you were responsible for murdering his wife and everyone else. Innocent people under his rule, and he couldn't protect them from his own mother. I wish I had been here to stop him because you clearly did not care enough to try!"

Cersei cocks her eyebrows at him. "Are you seriously accusing me of purposefully allowing our son to commit suicide?"

"You say you had The Mountain keeping Tommen safe while you blew up the Sept. Well where was The Mountain when he jumped? Why weren't you or your monster with him when he needed you most?!"

"He outlawed trial by combat after you left." She tells him, "Our son would've seen me dead so he could keep fucking his little whore. But if you are asking me if I foresaw Tommen leaping from his window then let me tell you I did not so we can put the matter behind us." She draws closer to him then, dropping her cold persona.

Jaime can't look at her. "The Sept blows up, the King dies, and his mother takes the throne. Do you have any idea how this looks? Do you know what the rest of the world will say about you now?"

"I don't care what they have to say about me. Would you have it any other way?" She snaps at him, sliding closer and closer to him. "You weren't here. I did what our father would've done. And I'd do it again a thousand times over. Don't you see? It's like you said, we don't need anyone but _each other_. Tyrells, Martells, Tullys, Starks, it doesn't matter who they are, they can all _burn_! All we need is each other just as it's always been!" She grabs his arms and forces his chin up with her fingers, faces mere inches apart. "You've been gone a terribly long time, Ser Jaime, and a Queen has her needs." The swell of her breasts presses against his chest, her leg slides between his crotch, and her lips latch onto his with the ferocity of a hungry lioness.

Jaime pushes his sister but she doesn't relent. "Stop." He grumbles weakly, tearing his lips away, "Just stop." She digs her nails into his clothes, ripping them off. _He is weak to me._ Cersei shoves him onto her bed. He tries to get back up but she's already on top of him, straddling his hips. He realizes he is afraid, too afraid to stop and too afraid to keep going. "I don't want this." He tells her as she undoes his belt.

" _I don't care_." The Queen answers, forcing him inside of her.


	2. Sansa I

Sansa

Winter's snow covers the castle in a blanket of beautiful, pure, white powder. Looking down from her tower, Sansa is able to bask in Winterfell's splendor, standing in the same room she was once held captive in with Ramsay Bolton… She closes her eyes, forcing herself to steer her thoughts away from that creature; a task she finds herself doing every day. The cold wind blows briskly against her face, caressing her auburn hair and giving her goose-pimples down her back. _I used to stand here and feel the wind against my face, numbing the bruises he would leave me every night…_ She wishes she can erase those memories completely, and wonders if it was too late to try and get their parent's bedroom back from Jon.

The Bolton banners were burned and the Stark Banners now fly over the castle walls. Sansa felt a smile creep up her face every time she saw them. _Thanks to me, Ramsay no longer exists and Winterfell is truly my home again. All memory of that horrible man and his family no longer matter. In time I will forget him._

She dresses in her Stark gown, the fur warm against her neck, and heads down the spiraling stone staircase to join her brother in the Grey Hall. She is always invited, he told her, saying he values her council just as much as any others. She appreciated that, yet every day he would turn to Davos when he looks for advice and far fewer to his sister. Sansa never brought this up of course. Jon is the King of the North… It didn't matter that he is only her half-brother, not to her. Her father's blood ran through his veins… Yet she can't shake this feeling that something isn't right. Littlefinger's words rang in her memory like a bell, hammering the word "Half-brother" whenever she grew annoyed with Jon's dismissal of her. _I have to trust him. I do trust him. He's family. He's safe. I can trust him…_

Yet her experiences with Joffrey… with Ramsay… with Littlefinger… All of it had taught her one thing: Never trust anyone, no matter who they are. Everyone has their own agendas… _But not Jon. He's family. He's blood. Trust him. Trust Jon._


	3. Jon I

Jon

The cold dark halls of Winterfell always brought back memories of his childhood. Watching his Lord Father address the Commonfolk on a day-to-day basis, commanding soldiers, passing judgement as Warden of the North from his high chair made of hard, aged oak. Now Jon Snow sat in his father's seat, watching the crowd of commoners gather in the great hall before him. It is so strange to be here again, sitting at the head of the hall, speaking as head of House Stark, and as King of the North. He never asks for this, yet here he sat; ruler of Winterfell. Beside him, Sansa Stark sat with her arms folded over her chest, watching Jon as his subjects approach, declare him their King of the North, before giving him their problem of the day. A gang of rapers were caught hiding the Wolfswood and Jon had them sent to The Wall instead of sentenced to death. Then there was the farmers, who claimed their lands were no longer capable of providing food during the winter. Jon declared the Winterfell stores were open for all who needed it, as well as its shelter from the storms. Davos advised him that while this was a compassionate move, Winterfell could not hold all the Commonfolk in the land, and their food storages would suffer even worse than they are were. Jon was still waiting to hear how long they had before they ran out of food completely, yet until then he could not deny helping those in need. It's what his father would've done. Wolves had attacked a farmer's cattle and the farmer wanted soldiers to help defend his lands. When Jon told him he could spare no men, the farmer asks instead for compensation for his cattle.

Jon can sense Sansa's discontent with his decisions from her subtle body-language, but discussing such disagreements in public was not wise. It is Davos, sitting on Jon's other side, whom he went to for advice on these matters. "The wolf is responsible for this man's lost cattle, but we can't bring the wolf to justice, nor can we afford soldiers for him. I suggest paying the man gold for another cow or two, Your Grace."

The farmer thanks them, nearly crying from alleviation. When the last of the Commonfolk leave and the hall falls quiet, Jon sighs with relief of his own. "Not a bad day, Your Grace?" Asks Davos with a friendly smile.

"Long." Jon replies, leaning back in his seat. "I never thought I'd be sitting here like this. Commander of the Night's Watch was easier. At least there I only had The Wall to deal with. None of these northern politics…"

"I can't think of a better man for the job, Your Grace." Davos tells him, "Stannis commanded respect but you receive respect without ever asking for it. That's a sign of a good leader."

"I wouldn't be half as good a King if it were not for your wise council, Ser Davos. Thank you, for everything."

"My pleasure, Your Grace. I believe we have one more if you're up to it. Lord Petyr Baelish."

Jon nods. "Let him in." Davos calls to a Stark guard at the doors. Jon, thinking it was all over, straightens up again in his chair. He notices Sansa's scowl, and wonders what _exactly_ happened between his sister and Lord Baelish.

As the small man enters, wearing his black cloak and a mocking-bird pin on his chest, he swept back the cape around his right arm and bows. "My King." He says respectfully, smiling up at their table.

"Lord Baelish." Jon smiles grimly. "What pleasure do I owe this visit?"

"I come with a request, Your Grace." Littlefinger straightens his back, his eyes flickering to Sansa who glares back at him distrustfully. "As you may recall, in the battle against the Boltons it was my Knights who came to your aid. As I'm sure you're well aware, I wouldn't have done this if not for your sister's letter. She rationally begged me for my help. In this letter, which I have here—" He pulls out a rolled up piece of parchment from his sleeve, "She promises to reward me for my help in the matter. Normally a simple request from one as beautiful as Sansa would be enough reason for me to answer the call. However, her promise of a reward has gone unfulfilled. So I come to you, the King in the North, and ask if you intend on honoring your sister's promise?"

Sansa glares daggers down at Littlefinger, her lips tight and her cheeks red. Jon has a feeling there is something he is missing and frowns. "Davos. The letter, I'd like to read it myself."

Davos stands, crosses the hall, receives the letter from Lord Baelish, and returns to the table. Littlefinger has half a smile on his face, watching Jon read. "As I said, Your Grace, she promised a reward and I answered the call. I was never loyal to House Stark before and I'll be the first to admit it, yet I answered the call. And even after the battle, when no reward was given, I announced the Vale as House Stark's ally when I didn't have to. I could've left with my Knights and never returned. Yet here I stand, my Knights ready to defend the North."

"He speaks true, Your Grace." Davos tells him, eyeing Sansa.

Jon frowns at his sister with disbelief, "You promised him a reward?"

"I did." She admits, "I promised him a reward if he came to your aid. He answered the call… after you'd lost almost all of your men and were on the verge of death yourself. He came right when it was the most convenient time to. Do you really think such a craven deserves a reward?"

There's the slightest scoff from Lord Baelish before he asks, "Is it a craven who risks his life and the lives of his men to go to war? Is it a craven who waits until the right moment to strike in order to save as many of his men as he can? Where do we draw the line between cowardice and heroics? "Regardless of whether or not my tactics were morally sound, I answered the call and, arguably, won you the battle. I only ask for what was promised me."

Jon raises his hand to silence them before Sansa can respond. "You will have your reward, Lord Baelish. I will not have House Stark be called liars, nor would I have my Bannermen go unrewarded for their service. Name your price." He didn't need to look to know Sansa is glaring at _him_ now; he can feel her eyes digging into the side of his head, just out of his peripheral vision.

Littlefinger says, "There's only one thing I ask for. Your sister's hand in marriage."

Jon is surprised. Sansa speaks before he can this time, and she does so with audible rage. "I will never marry you, Petyr. Ever. How dare you come here and ask my brother—"

"Sansa!" Jon interrupts, his voice stern. "I will handle this."

"But Jon—"

"I believe my request was for the King of the North, with all due respect, My Lady." Littlefinger's sly smile is sharp.

It is Davos who speaks next. "Lord Baelish, if I may, why Lady Sansa? Surely there are other women you can marry yourself to. Unless, and I may be mistaken, you intend on gaining something more from this arrangement?"

"You are mistaken, Onion Knight. I have been in love with Lady Sansa since the moment I laid eyes on her. She has been my goal, my one true desire, for as long as can I remember. I would do anything for her." Littlefinger pauses, appearing amused by Jon's uneasy expression. "Unfortunately she has been… less than appreciative of my affections."

Davos can tell Jon is struggling with this, so he speaks up in his stead again, "Lord Baelish, you are a well-known man. You are known for being an intelligent, tremendously rich, self-made man. Some say you have your little finger in everybody's pocket... Stories of your love for Catelyn Stark is also a well-known thing, m'lord…" Littlefinger's smile slacks and Davos knows he struck a nerve, "Forgive me for asking, for I know little about love, yet I can't be the only one who finds it strange you've fallen for the daughter of the woman you once fought for?"

"I see. If this is what concerns you then let me reassure you that my love for Catelyn Stark was a formidable thing, and after she was murdered atrociously at the Red Wedding I was lost. But then I saw a chance to redeem myself for failing her. I rescued Sansa from Queen Cersei before she could have her head for merely being a suspect in King Joffrey's murder. I brought her with me, took care of her at the Vale, made her part of my family. I fell for her more as we grew closer, and I realized I was given a second chance from the Gods at love."

"Were you not married at the time?" Davos asks frankly, "While you were busy falling in love?"

Littlefinger's narrow frown flickers to Sansa. "I was. Lysa Arryn was a delicate woman. She was also touched in the head. I found her abusing Sansa. I had her thrown from the moon door for her crimes."

"Funny, I heard she slipped of her own doing." Davos glares at Littlefinger, not believing a word the man says. He'd heard tales of the former Master of Coin, disconcerting tales about lies, spies, and betrayal. Jon had heard these things as well, yet he found it easier to sit back and let Davos speak for him when it came to a matter like this, "I can't say I believe every word you say. Though it does seem you are willing to go far to protect her from harm."

"I would sooner die than see Sansa hurt."

"Then why did you sell me off to Ramsay like I was nothing but a bargaining chip to you?!" Sansa blurts out, her hands balled into constricted fists. Jon and Davos stare at her in shock as she yells, "You gave me to a monster without a second thought, for your own benefit, and when I was being raped and beaten in my home you weren't there! How can you say you love me?"

"My Lady, you forget I offered you a choice. I would never force you to do anything. Have I ever?" The question lingers for a moment and Sansa remembers that day overlooking Moat Cailin and being told she could turn back with him… But she also remembers initially not wanting to go… _So why did I go? What was it he said to convince me?_ As she asks herself these questions Littlefinger continues talking, "I believe I have proven my love for Sansa exists, if that is what the Onion Knight wishes to confirm with these questions."

"I've heard enough." Jon announces, capturing the quiet room's attention…

He can feel all eyes on him now and the pressure to speak weighs heavily on his heart for this is the last thing he wishes to speak of. It is Sansa he looks to and sees clear as sunlight she did not want this. Whoever this man is, whatever he'd done right or wrong, she did not love him. "You ask for my sister's hand in marriage. I cannot make her do what she does not wish to, but I can grant you a reward for your services in the battle. We do not have much gold but we can give you what we can afford—"

"Gold is something I fear I have more of than most, including you, Your Grace." Littlefinger interrupts, his smile dissolving now. "You said to name my reward and I name Sansa Stark."

"Well I can't give her to you." Jon says.

The relief on Sansa's face is profound. Littlefinger, however, didn't move from his spot, resolute in his position. "What will happen then, when I leave Winterfell unrewarded? What will happen when you go to seek alliances for the great wars to come and they hear the Starks are not the honorable house they once were? What happens when they call you the Bastard King who does not give as much as he takes?"

"Is that a threat?" Jon growls, feeling an urge to have his guards throw him out.

"It's a prediction, Your Grace. A prediction of the future. As your Onion Knight has already proven, I cannot control how truth and rumors spread, only that they do spread, far and wide across the realm. It would be a terrible thing, really, especially after announcing my allegiance to your House and saving your life in the battle of the bastards."

Jon leans back in his chair, studying the man before him. The arrogance is back, but this time Littlefinger had made a point Jon can't contend with. Davos inclines and whispers in his ear, "He's trying to manipulate you. He's played his hand. It's up to you now where this goes."

Except Jon didn't know where to go with this. "I will consider your request, Lord Baelish, and give you my answer as soon as I've decided."

"That's all I can hope for, Your Grace. I thank you for your time and hospitality." Petyr bows his head again, turning with elegance for the doors, casting Sansa one last devious glance, before strolling outside.

As soon as those doors close, Sansa began. "You can't seriously be considering this, Jon? He's trying to use you to get to me."

"I understand that… Do you take me for a fool?" He asks her calmly.

"Then why didn't you deny him?"

"Because it's more complicated than that. We need the Knights of the Vale as well as every other house that we can get to join us for the true war against The White Walkers. I have to look at all of it, Sansa, so I can't just deny him outright. I need time to think."

"So then what are you going to do? You can't expect me to marry him!" Sansa is on her feet now, her eyes glistening. "He knows you have the power to marry me off now and is using you! He doesn't care about me or you or the north, he only cares about himself… Do you really trust a man like that?"

"I wasn't the one who trusted him to begin with. If it wasn't for you sending that letter and promising him a reward I wouldn't be in this position!" Jon snaps back, "You never told me about his army! You never told me about your promise to him! You never told me _anything_! Now I have to make a decision and you want to blame me!?"

At once he regrets these words and losing his temper. The sour dismay in her face breaks his heart. It didn't matter then whose fault this was, only that his sister is crying and he didn't know how to comfort her. "Sansa…" he reaches out but she brushes past him, walking briskly out of the hall, refusing to let them see her tears.

"Your sister's resistance is understandable," Davos says after she is gone, both of them standing up from their seats now that their business had ended. "Personally, I don't trust the man. But he makes a good point that if we don't give him what he wants the realm will hear about it. The next time we call for aid, they might think twice about responding if they hear the Vale was promised lies."

"I know. But how can I give up my sister to a man like that?"

"I don't envy your position, Your Grace. All I can tell you is to do what you think is right. That's all any of us can ever do."

Jon dourly nods and Davos leaves him standing alone in his Grey Hall, wondering if his father ever felt this way.


	4. Arya I

Arya

The serving wenches at The Twins of the Crossing are preparing the usual morning porridge, rashers of bacon, and dried bread for their Lords of House Frey. One of the serving wenches is pouring what appears to be cow's milk into each of the bowls until they are all full and ready for eating. Smiling, the serving wench and several others bring the bowls out into the great hall where all of Lord Walder's sons are seated; some already digging into their breakfasts while others argue over their father's whereabouts. "Father is usually late but never this late to break his fast." Edwyn Frey comments as he crunches into his bacon.

"Perhaps he had too much to drink last night?" Another son, Petyr Frey offers as the serving wench who poured all the milk hands him his porridge.

"Maybe one o' us should go and check on 'em?" Asks a third son, Steffon Frey, fatter than the rest.

"Let the old man rest. He'll chew yer head off if ya wake 'em." Scolds Ryman Frey with a yawn, already half finished with his porridge.

It isn't until they are all eating that they notice two of their brothers are missing as well. "Where's Black Walder and _Lame_ Lothar?" Asks Edwyn Frey.

"Probably torturing ol' Edmure down in the dungeons again." Ryman Frey scoffs, slurping down the last of his bowl and licking his lips. "Anyone else think the milk today has a funny taste to it?" There's several murmurs of agreement. Ryman looks around and sees Petyr Frey has passed out in his chair. He laughs and points at him, but as he does so his own arm sags limply, elbow crashing into his bowl. Beside him Edwyn Frey collapses face first into his breakfast, spraying chunks of porridge everywhere. Steffon Frey releases a long, loud belch, smiling with pleasure as he leans back in his chair and starts snoring. Ryman gawks at his brothers, cousins, nephews, and uncles, confusion settling in as the Freys all suddenly, inexplicably fall asleep where they sit. Ryman stands up, shouting in slurred speech, "Wha-the-fuck!?" He tries to flee but his legs are numb. His eyes roll into the back of his head as he trips. When his head hits the floor he is already dreaming.

Silence falls across the hall broken only by the snoring of the Freys.

After a minute of this, the doors crack open and one of the serving wenches enters. She removes her face and approaches Ryman on the floor first. A small smile forms across her lips as she unsheathes Needle. "The Starks send their regards." Arya whispers as she plunges Needle into his throat. When she pulls it out a little fountain of blood spurts up. Ryman's eyes never open, but his mouth quivers as if from a bad nightmare.

Arya moves next to the table on her right and, one by one, makes her way down the length of it, poking holes in every Frey throat along her way. When she reaches the other end of the table, her hands are red with their lifeblood. Arya strides back to the center of the hall and admires her work before sliding Needle back in its scabbard.

In the dungeons below, Edmure Tully hears the sound of encroaching footsteps. Blinking through tears of pain, he sees a young lad standing beyond the bars of his cell. He almost looks familiar but he can't quite name him. "What do you want, boy?" Edmure asks, trying to place where he recognizes him.

Arya doesn't answer, only reaches up with something in her hands and with a loud _click!_ The cell door opens. Edmure just stares, unable to believe his eyes. Is this his new torture? Is he being tricked somehow? What farce is this? But the little boy only turns and walks away, leaving the door open. "W-Wait!" he calls, standing up and moving to the open door but never crossing through. "Wait! Who are you!? What is this?!"

The boy stops for a moment at the top of the flight of stone steps and seems to consider his question...

But Arya never turns around and she never says a word as she exits the dungeons.


	5. Brienne I

Brienne

Toads and crickets sing their songs, the water ripples under their boat, and Pod is humming _the_ _bear and the maiden fair_ as they sail north. Brienne is rowing, her arms growing tired and her back sore. They will be at Winterfell within the week, she guesses, trying to tune out her squire's song. "Hm hmm hm, hm _hm hmm_ , hmm hm hmm!"

"Pod." Brienne says, glancing over her armored shoulder at him. "Do you have to do that?"

Podrick blinks at her. "Hm? Do what?"

"That humming. You're not a bard, you're my Squire. Unless you have a lute hiding away somewhere then I'd rather not listen to it."

"Something on your mind, My Lady?" Pod asks, "You've been in a foul mood since we left Riverrun?"

Brienne turns back around, facing the murky swamplands ahead of them. "I'm fine. I just don't like being this close to the marsh."

"They say that the Crannogmen live in these bogs." Pod says, wondering at the massive, murky trees and fog that enclosed their river. "Nobody really hears much from them. They mostly stay in hiding. _Frog-eaters_ , Lord Tyrion used to call them. Green-skinned barbarians others say. I've never seen one for myself though. I'd feel better if we got out and started walking soon."

"All the more reason we should try and stay quiet." Brienne says, "There's a dock up ahead we can port at and make east for the Kingsroad. Just stay low and don't make any unnecessary noise."

"Yes, My Lady."

After another hour of rowing they find the small, downtrodden pier amidst the brushes and tie the boat up to it for anyone's future use. She wants to get out of the armor and rest her muscles but she'd have to wait until they made camp for the night.

As they make their way through thick bushes, Brienne swatting branches and cobwebs out of their way while Pod gets tangled up in them, the two hear the sound of trotting hooves. _A road must be close._ Brienne hisses at Pod to duck down and the two of them bend at the knee behind a tree, her hand around the hilt of Oathkeeper. She watches with bated breath as the horse trots into sight, its rider garbed in a familiar red robe.

The Red Woman is traveling at a steady pace, her head bowed low and her expression distraught. She is alone.

So many questions, yet Brienne is overcome with only one desire and is on her feet before she can think, sweeping through the forest, blocking the sorceress' path. Pod tries to whisper for her to stop, but Brienne doesn't hear him, and he is caught in too many brambles to keep up with her. The horse neighs in protest, galloping to a stop a few feet away from the giant woman in its path.

"Lady Brienne of Tarth." Melisandre greets in a cold, dead tone.

"Why are you out here alone?" Brienne asks, letting her suspicion show.

The Red Woman smiles sadly. "I've been exiled from the north by Jon Snow. The Northern Lords voted him their new King of the North. He defeated Ramsay Bolton and took back Winterfell, though some are saying it was really Sansa Stark who won them the battle by calling upon The Knights of the Vale."

"The battle, it's happened?" Brienne asks, startled, "What happened to Lady Sansa? Tell me!"

"She is fine. But none of that concerns me anymore. Jon Snow's decided he no longer has use for me. So now I must go. To where, I do not know, as far south as south takes me I suspect. Goodbye, Lady Brienne." Her horse begins to trot forward but Brienne moves in her way once more, holding Oathkeeper in both of her hands.

"Why have you been exiled?" Brienne asks, her voice rumbling deep with anger. "What did you do?"

Melisandre appears worried now. "I've told you enough."

Brienne gets closer, causing the horse to grow nervous and back away. "Stannis isn't the only one responsible for Lord Renly's murder. It was a shadow… a shadow _you_ spawned with magic. You are just as guilty as he was. What other crimes have you committed? Tell me now and I'll spare you a slow death."

Melisandre opens her mouth, perhaps to tell Brienne everything or perhaps to tell her nothing. Brienne never found out. Before a single word came out from her red lips a small, green dart appears in her neck, protruding out from The Red Woman's jugular, nearly invisible to the naked eye. Brienne watches as the sorceress topples down from her horse, landing in the mud unconscious. Her chestnut rears on its hind legs, threatening to crush Melisandre's head underneath her—But Brienne roars at it, waving her sword. The horse turns and runs back down the road. All around her the giant trees whisper as the frog's song out in the bog transforms into inaudible voices. Brienne holds Oathkeeper at the ready, looking for the dart-blower and standing over The Red Woman protectively, but she sees no one. The voices get louder. Sweat trickles down the side of her face. _Whoever's out there is watching me, waiting…_ Thankfully Pod is nowhere to be found, still hiding behind the tree. If she could somehow drag The Red Woman over there and—

A dart sprouts from her neck sending waves of euphoric numbness through her bloodstream. "Pod!" She gasps, collapsing under the weight of her armor. Her body gives up and her face meets mud and rock...

Dark shadowy shapes emerge all around her… Brienne closes her eyes, trying to feel for the sword at her side…

 _Jaime…_


	6. The Hound I

The Hound

The Twins of House Frey poke up out of the snowy hillsides, its long and narrow bridge connecting each tower to the north and south. The Hound agreed to travel with the Brotherhood without Banners though really he didn't have a choice, he would die alone. They want to go north. With a force of their size, going through the twins is the quickest option with winter upon them. He could've turned south, forgetting about the Brotherhood and their silly Red God… When they told him they were traveling north to serve House Stark in Winterfell, however, The Hound decided to follow them. This decision meant dealing with the fucking Freys.

Beric informed him earlier this morning that he was leading an assault on The Twins. "If they give us any trouble, I'm confident we can handle them. Walder Frey is a feeble, old man; his sons are all morons and cravens. House Frey only has two thousand men left in their forces according to my scouts, and most of them are in Riverrun or spread across the Riverlands. All together we have the numbers to take their towers and their bridge and hold it for The King of the North. We won't have much of a difficult time getting through, mark my words."

"That's what Robb Stark probably thought." The Hound said then. Now he rides at the head of the Brotherhood's army as winter's wind lashes at his face. Behind them ride over five hundred men and women, most on horseback, while the stragglers catch up on foot. Beric gave The Hound his own horse to ride, though he didn't care for how lazy and unmotivated it acts. He has a hard time keeping up with Beric and the others when traveling on the road or through rough forest terrain, though sometimes he purposefully avoids them and their annoying Lord of light nonsense by staying in the rear of their little army. Today Sandor is riding faster than any other, remembering how House Stark fell to House Frey's trap on these very lands not long ago.

When they arrive and announce their presence to the tower guards (or at least where there should be tower guards up atop the walls), no one answers Beric's call. After several minutes of waiting, The Hound grows impatient and throws the doors open with a solid kick of his boot. He walks in ahead of them, Thoros of Myr casting Beric an impressed grin. The entrance hall is empty. Down a ways The Hound hears the crying of women. The Brotherhood disperses throughout the tower as Sandor, Beric, and Thoros make way into the Great Hall where the Red Wedding took place.

Every son, nephew, cousin, uncle, brother, and father with the last name Frey sit at each of the long tables surrounding him, and at first The Hound clutches the hilt of his sword, but then he gets a good look at them… _All of them are dead_. A serving wench is sobbing in the middle of the room on her knees beside one of the Freys who had made it out of his chair before collapsing. There's a pool of stale blood around his head and a tiny, needle-like hole in his throat. "They've been slaughtered." He hears Beric say.

"I've never seen something like this." Thoros of Myr mutters, lifting one of the Frey boy's head out of his bowl of porridge. "All of their necks are cut. Why did none of them try to run or fight?"

"This one did." The Hound kicks his foot at the Frey on the floor, making the wench flinch beside him. "Didn't make it far. What happened here, girl?"

"I-I-I don't know!" Stammers the serving wench with tears free-falling from her eyes. "I j-just found them l-like this! I swears it, Lords! I swears it on me life!"

Beric Dondarrion walks up to one of the bowls of porridge, sticks a finger in the aging milk, and licks it off. After a moment he turns to his companions and says, "Milk of the Poppy. They were drugged."

"Only a fucking coward kills men like this." The Hound grumbles, studying the little hole in the man's throat closely. _Only a thin, little blade could make a hole like this… Like a needle… Arya, was this you?_ The Hound rounds on the wench beneath him. "Where's the rest of the men? The soldiers, girl, speak."

"I-I-I don't know. When we found them like this e-everyone panicked… The soldiers and the guards all started fighting each other for power… P-People died… Everyone started stealing as much as they could carry from Lord Walder's chambers. Many more fled into the Riverlands. I-I think there's still one Frey in Riverrun, holding the castle, b-but I don't know for certain—it's just what I heard from some of the men as they were leaving."

"I don't see the old man here." Thoros observes, "What happened to Lord Walder?"

"I don't know, m'lords, please, let me go…"

"You're not in peril, girl." Beric assures her with a friendly smile. "Thoros, have the men search for Lord Walder Frey. Have them clean up the bodies still lying about the place. Tell them the Twins belong to the Brotherhood now."

"I thought you were going to Winterfell?" Sandor asks him.

"We will. But our numbers grow larger every day and winter is here. It is wiser to take an empty castle while it's up for the taking, wouldn't you agree? Or do you disapprove?"  
The Hound merely shrugs. "We will be the new Lords of the Crossing, and our banners will have no sigil so all know the Freys are no more. Any Frey soldier found in the Riverlands will be executed on sight. Sandor Clegane, I would offer you a proposal."

"Let me guess," The Hound grumbles, grimacing, "You want me to go north for you."

"A single rider travels quicker than any army, and we would be better off defending the Neck from any southern invaders while the King in the North hears our pledge. Inform our King at Winterfell the Brotherhood without Banners has taken the Twins, killed the Freys ourselves as vengeance for the Red Wedding, and offers our services in the wars to come. Tell him the Lord of Light has given us a great gift in him, and we will follow his command until the end of our days. I know you do not wish to join our cause, but see to this request and I will ensure you are rewarded. Will you do this, Sandor Clegane?"

The Hound picks up a piece of cold bacon from one of the Frey plates, crushing it between his fingers absentmindedly. "I'll do it but not for you. I owe the Starks."

"You owe them?"

"One or two in particular, yes." He nods to Beric, "I'll ride for Winterfell. But don't expect me to tell him all that _Lord of Light_ horseshit."

Beric placidly smiles. "Thank you, Clegane."

He doesn't want to stay long. After he is done taking a piss and raiding the food stores he lumbers out and saddles up his lazy horse for the journey north. At least he'd be alone for a while. _The Brotherhood is all a bunch of self-righteous little cunts._ As he turns his horse towards the road he thinks he can feel eyes watching him somewhere, giving him a slight chill. Looking over his shoulder, however, he sees only the forest trees in the south blowing in the day's breeze as the river rumbles under the bridge. Deciding it is nothing, he spurs his mount forward and gallops northward.


	7. Arya II

Arya

The oak tree is rough under her fingertips. The shadow of its canopy covers her well enough so nobody notices her. Arya stands hidden in the woods overlooking the Twins, watching for hours on end as banners are unfurled over the tower's walls, replacing the Frey sigil with that of a blank, white one. She knows right away who these men are. She recognizes the leaders, watching as the one called Thoros of Myr finds old Walder Frey's corpse in the river and drags him to shore; observing as Beric Dondarrion gives a rousing speech to his men about holding the twins. Her hand clutches Needle, remembering how these men betrayed her trust, sold Gendry to The Red Woman… They should be on her list, but after arriving at the House of Black and White she had decided not to worry about them until the other two names in her mantra, _Cersei_ and _The Mountain,_ were no longer whispered before she fell asleep every night… _But they're here now, right in front of me. I came here for Frey but to have the Brotherhood arrive a day later… It's like killing two pigeons with one swing of Needle; Three if I want to include that annoying drunk of a priest for being such a liar. It was Beric who truly sold Gendry out though…_

All inner debate about assassinating the Brotherhood's Commander disappears instantly when she notices The Hound saddling up a horse on the northern side of The Twins.

 _Impossible..._ Surely he is dead. He is _supposed_ to be. She left him dying. No man could've survived that... _He was begging for me to kill him!_ Confusion, horror, and… is it guilt Arya feels tighten in the pit of her stomach? She wants to yell to him, to run out and scream his name, to tell him she is going with him wherever it is he is going— _that he doesn't have to be alone!_

But her legs won't budge. Her body is frozen stiff. All she can do is watch as he turns in her direction for a pause as though he knows she is out there… Then rides off…

Arya remains rooted to the spot until he is out of sight, holding back tears. She looks down at Needle and takes a deep breath, reminding herself… _Cersei… The Mountain… Cersei… The Mountain… Cersei… The Mountain…_ She turns around and climbs onto a Destrier she stole from the Twin's stables. _There is no going back_ , she tells herself over and over, making it a part of her mantra as she rides out of the trees in the opposite direction of The Hound…


	8. Bran I

Bran

The cold winter forest could not hide the enormous wonder that is The Wall from Bran. Meera is dragging him on his leather sled, grunting with every step. He feels bad for her and wants to make it up to her, but doesn't know how. With Hodor and Benjen gone, Bran needs Meera to carry him everywhere. She is strong, tough, and determined… but after a day of dragging him, he could tell she is ready to give up and pass out. Up ahead the trees thin out and the base of The Wall appears. Snow is falling heavily all around them, so when Bran looks up, he couldn't even see the top of magnificent structure. "We made it." Meera gasps, collapsing into the snow out of breath.

"Do you think they can see us?" Bran asks her, scanning the icy-blue surface.

"They better." Meera grunts. She stands back up and starts waving her arms.

Bran asks, "Do you remember the secret passage we came through?"

"Yes but I have no idea where to find it again."

Bran says he remembers and asks her to take him. Before she can pick him up, however, a single horn blast sounds-off from atop The Wall.

"They see us!" Meera exclaims with excitement, punching the air with joy and turning around to face Bran, grinning. "We're finally out of this nightmare! We made it, Bran! We…" Her voice falls short and she looks down sadly.

"What is it, Meera?" Bran asks her.

"I just wish… Jojen and Hodor could be here with us." Meera admits, wiping her eye. Behind her The Wall's gates groan to life and lift up out of the trenches of snow. Two of the Night's Watch appear in the tunnel, approaching them with swords drawn, dressed as always in their black garb.

"Meera." Bran says quietly before the men get close. "I'm not sure this is a good idea."

Meera is too busy waving to the watchmen to look at him, but she does ask, "What do you mean?"

"Who goes there?!" Calls one of the men in black.

"What I mean is, the Night's King… He grabbed me. He knows where I am, he knows I will be beyond The Wall. I don't know why, but he's after me."

"What are you saying?"

"Uncle Benjen said The Wall is protected by magic. But the Three-Eyed Raven's cave was also protected by magic until the Night's King touched me. What I'm saying is—"

"Speak up! Who goes there?!" Calls the Night's Watchmen once again, growing closer. Bran can hear the other remarking how he thought all the Wildlings were on _their_ side of The Wall now.

"Bran, we have to go through. It's the only way we'll be safe. Your uncle didn't seem worried about it and neither should we." Meera tells him, waving her hand for the Watch and shouting: "I am Meera of House Reed and this is Bran of House Stark! We need to pass!"

 _I guess she's right. Still, I have this terrible feeling in the pit of my stomach that if I go on the other side of that wall, The Night King will be able to follow me…_ Bran clears his throat and says, "I have urgent news for my brother. Can I speak with him?"

The two men of the Night's Watch look at each other with disbelief. "Stark?" one questions. "Does that mean—are you Jon's brother?"

"I am. Is he here?"

The other grunts, "He rode for Winterfell some time ago, took it back from the Boltons. They're calling him King of the North now."

Bran knows he should be surprised, yet somehow this news doesn't shock him. Meera looks to Bran and suggests, "Maybe he already knows?"

"No. He couldn't. Not unless our father told him…"

"What are you two going on about?" The grizzlier of the two Watchman asks with a raised eyebrow.

"Can we come inside and stay the night in Castle Black?" Bran asks him. The other Night's Watchman says that will be up to their Lord Commander, but grants them permission to cross for it is not safe out here.

Through the ice tunnel and out the other end, Bran and Meera, assisted by the two men, enter Castle Black's courtyard. A cold, stifling snow is swirling around them. Bran covers his mouth as he looks around, having never set foot inside Castle Black before. He thinks to himself, _so this is where Jon has been all this time. First a brother of the Watch, then Lord Commander, now King of the North?_ He remembers Maester Luwin telling him that even a Bastard could rise high at The Wall. But Jon is not the bastard he thinks he is… At least, not from _his_ father.

When the Lord Commander came out and down the flight of stairs, Bran expects to see a man who commands fierce respect and loyalty, someone who is large and strong, a man who looks like he could defend The Wall with bravery and might. Instead, they got Dolorous Edd.

"Jon told me about his brothers." Dolorous Edd says as he stands before them in his black, snow-covered cloak, eyeing Bran's disabled legs. "Told me about your accident. 'Said you'd never walk again… Jon is my brother, which makes you my brother. You have the watch's aid, Bran Stark. Whatever you need."

"Thank you, Lord Commander." Bran nods with a relieved smile, "You have my gratitude. We've been north of The Wall for a while and could use beds to sleep in for the night. In the morning we will make our way south to Winterfell."

"You can have Jon's room. Though we can only offer you small amounts of food and a lukewarm bath, our storage have been running low." Edd's eyes dart to The Wall then back to Bran, "But I got to know, how long have you been out there? What have you seen? We need to know."

"The White Walkers, we've seen them, fought them... We lost friends to them." Bran says, looking up at Edd who isn't much bigger than Meera. "They attacked us. We fled and made it back but they can track me. The Watch needs to be prepared for an assault."

Edd gulps. "Brilliant. We've encountered them as well. Jon even killed one."

 _That's my brother_ , Bran thinks with a smile. "Let's go inside and I'll tell you all I—"

Before the words can finish escaping Bran's lips, two things happen in unison Bran does not expect. The mark around his wrist flares with intense heat, stronger than before, and at the same time the earth beneath them vibrates as an ear-splitting _KEEEEEEERACK!_ thunders over their heads. Meera falls and collapses in the snow beside Bran, their hands intertwined. Edd swears, nearly tripping over himself from the earthquake. One of the Watch yells and points up at The Wall. Bran knows what it is before he even looks.

Running down from the top of The Wall to the bottom is a long, deep fissure growing larger by the second. Small chunks of ice fall from the damage, crashing like boulders into parts of Castle Black. A section of the elevator's wooden beams split from the falling debris, threatening to tear the whole thing down. "Take cover!" Edd shouts, ducking down and helping Meera wrap Bran with his cloak as snow and ice rain down on them. The rest of The Watch all run under shelter, tugging at crying horses and hollering at each other to watch out for falling ice. Bran can feel Meera's hand around his squeezing for dear life as they make their way under the blacksmith's rooftop, but more than that he feels white hot pain threatening to burn his wrist off at the bone—as though The Night King himself was grabbing him right now.

Then, just as quickly as it began, the earthquake ceases, the ice stops falling, and the searing hot pain evaporates, leaving his hand and arm numb. The large crack remains where it is as if some colossal beast had slashed it, a strange steam rising out of the ice and into the sky in spite of the blistering snow storm.

"Fuck me," Lord Commander Dolorous Edd sighs apprehensively "That can't be good."

 _No… No, what have I done!?_ Bran runs his hands up through his long, shaggy hair and gapes up at The Wall's new scar. _This is my fault._ Meera looks him in the eye, her face sagging with fear, so close to his he could kiss it. _I'm sorry, Meera. I never should have crossed._


	9. Euron I

Euron

The saltwife's ass is plump and juicy the way only Westerosi asses are, not like the saltwives he'd find in Essos who were all too skinny from starvation to supply a decent handle for his hands to grab while they ride him. This one, a pale, white thing with dark hair and gaunt, lifeless eyes, she didn't ride as well as some he'd had in his day, but she gave him more pleasure than some of the others who liked to cry and beg for release while he fucked them.

The Salt Throne grinds underneath their weight, digging into Euron's ass-cheeks rather uncomfortably. He spanks the wench and snarls, "Are you sleeping? Faster!" into her ear. The girl obliges, rocking faster back and forth across his lap, her naked body bare for the entire hall to witness. The King in King's Landing is known to have seven Kingsguard. Euron decided he wanted twenty for his Kingsguard. Twenty armed men surround the new King of the Iron islands day in and day out, and all of them get to watch whenever Euron brought in a new saltwife. Euron isn't shy. _Let the world know of how big and unmerciful my cock is!_

The doors to the murky, black hall open and one of the Ironborn Captains under Euron's command enters the room accompanied by several of his first mates. He is a captain of a ship, so he commands the respect of his men but not the respect of the King of the Iron Islands. Euron has no respect for any man but himself, and doesn't care to remember this man's name or his reputation. "What do I owe this interruption?" Euron asks before the man can speak, grinning at his reaction to the woman riding him.

"My King, I've come from the shipping yards with news."

"Better be good, I grow weary waiting." Euron sighs, running his hand up to his saltwife's breast and giving it a squeeze. "When will my fleet of a thousand ships be ready? I grow weary sitting on these rocks."

The captain looks down with an uncomfortable frown. He is tall, gangly, with a thick, gray beard and sunken, eyes. "We simply do not have enough trees to work with, My Lord. We only have one hundred ships built and the islands are barren. Winter is here, most of the lumber is saved for the Commonfolk who need it for their fires to burn, or they'll freeze."

Euron scowls at the man. "What are our words?"

The Captain stiffens in fear before answering, "We do not sow!"

Euron laughs, "We take what is ours! If we do not have enough wood to build then we will sail inland and take more. There is a huge forest just east of our shores that's ripe for axes!"

"But the Crannogmen…" The captain licks his lips nervously. "We would be invading on their lands."

Euron stops the woman on top of him, grinning madly at the captain. "Do the Frog-Eaters scare you, Captain? Tell me, what is your name? How did you get to become a captain under my command?"

"M-My name? Your Grace, My name is Garwyn Raglaw. I've been a captain for the Ironborn fleet for over thirty years. I served your brother faithfully, and—"

"Ah, yes, my brother's man. No wonder I don't recognize you." Euron makes a face like he's about to explode as he bucks the saltwife harder and harder until finally he shoves her off of him, releasing his sperm all over her backside for the entire hall to witness, laughing while he does so. "I do not need a coward heading the fleet. I will go myself. You won't be needing your ship either. Or your life, I think... Kayne!"

The Commander of Euron's personal guard, as well as his first mate aboard _The Silence_ ; Beor Kayne responds to his King's call by stepping toward the Captain and sliding his Great Hammer out from behind his back. All twenty of Euron's guards follow suit, engulfing Captain Raglaw and his small crew. Beor Kayne is larger than most men, with a fearsome face covered in scars. Without a tongue to speak with, Kayne is also known as the Calm Storm, for he never utters so much as a grunt, even in combat. Before Euron cut out his tongue, Beor had been a talkative, charismatic outlaw who enjoyed boasting about the one time he successfully fought and defeated three Dothraki Screamers. Without a tongue to boast, Beor's hammer boasted for him.

"Throw him to the sharks." Euron laughs, watching as the bewildered Captain Raglaw and his handful of men, all loyal, draw their weapons and fight Euron's guards. As the battle ensues the emotionless wench shrieks when Euron grabs her hair and forces her to watch. She witnesses all of the captain's men go down, overwhelmed by Euron's guard. Kayne was the deadliest of them all, crushing Captain Raglaw's head under his hammer like it was an eggplant, spraying everyone in the vicinity with his lifeblood. The guards keep stabbing the corpses of the captain and his men long after it is needed, enjoying the bloodshed and laughing about it afterwards.

When Damphair enters, scans the room with its carnage, and notices King Euron with his saltwife, the old man clears his throat loudly for all to hear. The men stop laughing and back up to make way for him, for Damphair is the priest of the Drowned God. "Euron Greyjoy! I bring a message come this morning!"

"Ah! Is it from my dear niece and nephew? I would so like to see them again." Euron sighs, appearing disinterested as he bucks shoves the saltwife's ass back down over his limp cock to get it going again. He cares not what the priest thinks of his actions, for he is their King now and they will abide by his whims.

"Your brother, Victarion. He expresses frustration that he was not informed of the Kingsmoot."

Euron barks with laughter, "That was part of the fucking plan. It would have been a lot harder to win against him over Yara and Theon. Does he wish to contest me for the throne? I wish him the best of luck. I have twenty thousand men and over a hundred ships at my disposal and within a few weeks I'll have much, much more."

Damphair hands him the letter and he receives it petulantly. "I've landed in Volantis where we have seized control." Euron reads out-loud with a drawl. "Word from Dragon's Bay is the Dragon Queen has left with… the largest fleet the world has ever seen for Westeros…" There is a twitch in his brow when he reads this, and it gets even worse as he goes on, "Worry not, brother, I know you are busy ruling. I will take the Mother of Dragons and make her my wife while you grow fat on your chair." Euron tosses the letter aside without finishing the rest and kicks the saltwife off from him. As she falls the priest witnesses Euron's cock dangling and turns away out of disgust. Euron stands and tugs his trousers up, cursing repeatedly under his breath.

"Your brother is closer to her than we are." Damphair says flatly.

" _He made that clear!_ I don't need to be told the obvious… I need more ships. I need to get off these forsaken rocks and take power from the ones who truly control it."

"Am I correct in understanding we shall be setting sail then?"

"Yes! As soon as possible! I want every Ironborn man, woman and child out in those woods cutting down trees and building me my fleet! I don't care how many Crannogmen stand in my way—they are primitive creatures with no sense of warfare. Unworthy even of raping and reaving. It's their trees I want. If they want to fight me over trees, they'll get a fight." Euron pulls out his sword and faces his Kingsguard, "I will kill my remaining brother for this treachery… I will kill my niece and nephew for stealing _my_ ships! And when I find the Dragon Queen I will _fuck her_ until she _bleeds_!"


	10. Daenerys I

Daenerys

It's finally happening.

 _My fleet has set sail for Westeros_. Standing aboard her flagship, _The Red Wind_ , she can see hundreds of her ships in every direction except for ahead, where only the ocean stretches for as far as the eye can reach. Thousands of men and women are helping them sail from all parts of the world. The Dothraki she is especially impressed with. This is the first time in history these people had set foot off of land to cross the Narrow Sea. Their bravery is truly inspiring, and whenever one got sick and needed rest, Dany made sure they are accommodated. Then there are the Unsullied, who seemed like they were born for their role and controlled their ships with steadfast resolve. The men and ships given to her from the Martells and Tyrells are commanded by strong captains whom Dany had only met with once before departure where they'd pledged their allegiance to her. Dany had plans to meet with Olenna Tyrell and Ellaria Sand once they were closer to Dorne. Then there is Yara's fleet. The Greyjoys were a blessing to have on the open water, scouting ahead of her fleet and bringing back whatever news they could find. Today she can spot them returning from an expedition westward.

Daenerys, Mother of Dragons, walks along the firm, groaning deck of her ship to her cabin, smiling at every working hand along the way while her handmaiden Missandei follows in her footsteps. Her cabin is a spacious room with crimson walls and flooring, the sigil of House Targaryen draped along a banner behind the councilor's table where, sitting in a circle, are her most trusted allies.

"Ah, Daenerys, we were just talking about you." Greets Tyrion Lannister with a friendly smile. He is seated between the round, balding Varys and the battle hardened, serious Greyworm of the Unsullied. In front of him on the table was an assortment of maps and documents as well as a tankard half-full of wine, though the only one drinking from it was Tyrion.

Dany warmly smiles back at them. Of all her followers and advisers, the Dwarf known as Tyrion had so far been one of her biggest assets. He came out of nowhere for her, a gift from Ser Jorah Mormont. She had initially decided to give him a chance to prove himself, yet now she considers him one of the people she went to first for council. Especially now.

"We were discussing whether or not you should take your fleet directly into King's Landing or if we should instead attack by land, Your Grace." Tyrion explains, gesturing to a map on the table of Westeros and a map beside it of Essos. Dany approaches and sees they had marked where they are in the sea, though the fact that they will be on the Essos map for quite some time is disheartening. Tyrion continues, "We will reach King's Landing within a fortnight. By any luck my sister will have no idea we are coming. But we have to operate on the assumption that she will know by then, therefore attacking head-on with all of our ships seems a foolish option. If we want to assault King's Landing without my sister finding out about it before hand, then landing on Dorne or Storm's End or even Dragonstone would be a mistake. The people of Westeros would hear of us, whether we wanted them to or not. Varys has told me Qyburn's little birds are everywhere in Westeros now, and we could stand to lose our element of surprise. If we keep to the sea, our chances of arriving there undetected are much higher than that by land."

"So we attack them in Blackwater Bay." Daenerys says. "Full frontal assault with all of our ships."

"That would be foolish." Tyrion says poignantly. "I'm simply explaining why we must sail directly for King's Landing and not land first."

"Why is it foolish?" Greyworm asks in his deep, monotone voice, glaring at the Dwarf.

Tyrion looks exasperated to have to explain but explains anyway, "In the battle of Blackwater Bay, I was the one defending the walls of King's Landing while Stannis Baratheon attacked with his ships. My sister, who is now the Queen of The Seven Kingdoms, knows where the Mad King kept caches of wildfire underneath the city in the catacombs. I'm willing to bet she didn't use all of it up destroying the Sept. If we sail into Blackwater the same thing I did to Stannis will happen to us. We could stand to lose half the fleet or more by attacking so predictably. Which is why I offer a solution. Send the Dothraki onto land around the south of the city and have them join forces with the Tyrell and Martell forces that will be waiting outside the walls and blocking off any escape routes or incoming enemy reinforcements. Use them to attack from the west while our ships invade from the east and Cersei will be cornered." The room listens to him speak and when he is done all are quiet, making Tyrion flush. "What?"

"How many battles have you been in?" Greyworm asks him.

"A few." Tyrion says defensively, "Why?"

"You speak as though you know battles. Yet when you're in a battle, plans change. Things go wrong. We must be ready."

"We all agree on that." Tyrion says, "Which is why I think dividing our forces and attacking the city from multiple fronts grants us the highest chance of success. What about you, Varys?"

Varys blinks and purses his lips before saying, "You are both right. The wildfire Queen Cersei possesses might be her greatest threat against us. If used correctly the fire can spread across the sea and all of us would burn. If used incorrectly the entire city could burn before we ever reach the Iron Throne." Varys looks to their Queen then, and says, "If we are to attack King's Landing before anything else, I say we follow Tyrion's plan. The Dothraki are all but useless on the sea during a fight. Have them rush the west while we take the east and you fly over it all on your dragons, Your Grace."

"Tell me more about this wildfire?" Daenerys asks, taking a seat across from Tyrion while Missandei stands beside her.

"Wildfire burns just as hot as Dragon's fire, and is just as deadly. Alchemists discovered it a long time ago, and it is rumored they used blood of a dragon to create the concoction though the alchemists have never revealed the secret recipe." Tyrion recites from memory, wondering if the alchemist in King's Landing is capable of producing more.

"Fire cannot hurt a dragon." Dany says, "But my people will be harmed if we underestimate Cersei. I do not wish to see any innocent lives lost for my cause. Before the battle I would very much like to meet your sister, Tyrion."

Tyrion casts her a sideways smirk. "You say that now…"

"If not hurting the innocent is what you desire you best let your Dothraki know of this before we hand them over to the Tyrells and Martells for once they are on their own in the battle…" Varys pauses to dramatically sigh, "I fear the Dothraki are savages before saints, My Queen."

"No longer under my rule will they act as they once did. I will see to this." Dany nods to Varys, appreciating his council as well. The Spider was once her enemy when he was under King Robert's command, but Tyrion had advised her to trust him, for he is the reason Dany had allies in Westeros now. That alone had proven him worthy of a second chance. After-all, Ser Barristan Selmy had once followed King Robert before her own father, the Mad King. It is said Varys also followed under her father's rule but she had yet to bring it up with him.

"When we pass Dorne on our way up the Narrow Sea, we will be meeting with Lady Olenna Tyrell and Ellaria Sand of House Martell." Tyrion goes on, running a finger along the map. "When we do, we will discuss our battle plans again in greater detail. What I'm concerned about is how strong our allies support truly is."

"Why is that?" Varys asks him with a curious raised brow.

"I am a Lannister, in case you've forgotten. Lannisters destroyed the Tyrell Name, leaving Lady Olenna the last surviving member of her house; and Ellaria Sand hates Lannisters for her husband's brutal death on my behalf." Tyrion grimaces at Varys, "I would be correct in assuming you neglected to tell either of these women that I would be involved in this little alliance, wouldn't I?"

Varys innocently smiles. "And have them never trust my word again? No. I informed them of your position as Hand of the Queen… in a letter, after they had already agreed to send us ships, food, and soldiers."

"Will this be a problem?" Daenerys asks them, frowning. She had yet to meet either of her new allies in Westeros, and knew only what Varys and Tyrion informed her.

"I think not, Your Grace." Varys assures her, "The Queen of Thorns is a prickly woman, but she loathes Cersei more than she loathes the Lannister name. As for Ellaria Sand and her three Sand Snakes, well, I can only guess—but Tyrion was the man her paramour died to protect. If Ellaria would rather have his head than Cersei's, then all she needs is a little… _convincing_. Convincing people to change their perspective is a specialty of mine."

"It is a specialty of mine as well," She says, thinking of her dragons. "I wish to speak with Tyrion alone now. Varys, thank you for your wisdom and everything else you've brought to me."

"You are the true Queen Westeros has been in dire need of, Your Grace." Varys says, bowing tactfully before sliding out of the room.

"Greyworm," Dany says as her faithful soldier stands proudly from the table, "Your strength is what we need now. Offer any help you can to those feeling unsure of themselves. I want every man ready for the wars to come."

"Yes, my Queen!" Greyworm says, bowing and exiting. Missandei watches him leave, biting her lip as he casts her a longing glance before disappearing out on deck.

"You wished to speak with me, Your Grace?" Tyrion asks.

Dany looks to Missandei and tells her she can go. She asks if she's sure and Dany nods. The handmaiden bows out of the cabin. When she is gone, Dany looks to Tyrion and releases a massive, pent-up sigh of exhaustion mixed with relief. Tyrion smiles. "It's stressful, isn't it?"

"Am I really ready for this?" Dany asks, anxiety written all over her face.

"We wouldn't be here if you weren't ready." Tyrion gets up and moves around the table to her, picking up the tankard of wine and goblet as he says, "When you took off on your dragon in the fighting pits I thought to myself, _now there's a Queen I can follow until the end of my days._ But you weren't ready to invade Westeros. Then you returned, with an even larger army than what you had when you left. You showed restraint and intelligence, taking the master's ships instead of burning them all as you could have. That's when I knew you were ready for this. Don't let your doubts get to you now, not when you've come this far. We have two weeks on the open water. My professional recommendation would be to enjoy it while it lasts. After this, I doubt we'll find much peace." He hands her a golden goblet of wine.

She receives it, a smile cracking on her lips. "I suppose it can't hurt to indulge every now and then." Dany says as she sips from the cup.

"See!" Tyrion grins, taking a goblet for himself and gulping three huge mouthfuls down his throat. "A good Queen knows when to trust her advisers and this is something I am an expert at. Let us drink and forget about war for a night!"

They clink their goblets together, chuckling. "Just don't let me see you vomit and ruin this moment." She teases.

"My drinking is not a problem you need concern yourself with, Your Grace. My tolerance is higher than The Mountain." He finishes his goblet with a throaty cough, "My sister also has quite a drinking problem if I remember correctly. She was probably drunk when she blew up the Sept."

"Your nephew, King Tommen. He was killed in the fire?" Dany asks.

"No. Word from Varys is he fell from his window in the Red Keep. Jumped, most likely, after realizing his insane mother had just murdered a chunk of his Kingdom and his own wife. Tommen was a good lad, and if there's one thing I look forward to most is seeing the look in Cersei's eyes when she realizes I've come back to take everything from her just as she took everything from me."

"Tell me about them, you brother and sister." Dany says, leaning back and taking another sip of wine.

"Jaime? He's the best man I've ever known." Tyrion says plainly, reaching for the tankard and pouring himself another cup. "Was once the greatest swordsman in The Seven Kingdoms until his hand was chopped off. Now he has a golden hand and a golden heart. If we can, I would prefer we don't kill him… But if he's as loyal to our sister as he was once then we can count on him being there in the battle. Even with one hand he is a master with a sword. I would like if we could take him alive and give him a chance to join us. My brother is an honorable man despite slaying your father. You might not believe it but Jaime's actions that day are justified. Your father was called the Mad King for a reason, and Jaime saved the lives of every man, woman, and child inside the capital when he put his sword through your father's back…"

Daenerys always hates hearing about her father's madness, but she understands that what her Hand says is true all the same. Viserys had been a cruel man, a sadistic man, but a pitiable man in the end. Tyrion speaks as though he looks up to his brother and the only brother she can even consider looking up to would be the one she never knew, Rhaegar. "I will give your brother a chance to join us but as Greyworm said, in battle anything can happen."

"I greatly appreciate it all the same." Tyrion says, toasting her with his cup before swallowing another gulp. He sighs as he pulls back, wincing, "Cersei on the other hand can burn in dragon fire. Since the day I was born she made sure to make my life a living hell. She tried to kill me because she thinks I was the one who murdered her son, Joffrey. To this day I believe she has men out there bringing her dwarven heads claiming to be Tyrion Lannister's." He grins sadly as he says this and Dany feels an immense swell of pity for her Hand and contempt for his sister. "She once had one redeemable quality to her and that was her love for her children. But all three of them are dead now and the last was of her own doing. She is no longer worthy of mercy, respect, or dignity. She is a monster that needs to be put down."

Dany reaches over and takes Tyrion's shoulder in her grasp. He looks up at her, his eyes glistening, and basks in her warm smile. "You will have your revenge, my friend. I swear to you. When we take the Iron Throne, you will be there at my side to witness Cersei's fall."

"You will be riding a dragon, if I'm not mistaken, Your Grace." Tyrion grins, "I'm afraid I will be on a ship or storming the walls when you take the Red Keep."

"No." Dany stands up, looking down on Tyrion but seeing him as her equal. "When I ride for the Red Keep you will ride with me."

If Tyrion wasn't already getting tipsy, perhaps he would've kept a hold of his cup. Instead it slips from his fingers and crashes onto the floor, spilling what little wine is left inside over the crimson rug. "Ride with you? Daenerys, Your Grace, forgive me but… I can't ride a _dragon_!" He laughs, realizing this is all a jest. He bends over chuckling and picks up his goblet while shaking his hairy head. "A great jest, Your Grace. I apologize for spilling the wine, I'll have it cleaned right away."

"Tyrion Lannister, you would know if I wasn't serious." Dany says, smiling wide. "Are you afraid of them?"

"Afraid?" Tyrion's voice cracks, looking up into her eyes and realizing this is real. "Surely you can't think a man my size wouldn't fall off? I'm sorry but… I don't see how I could realistically…"

"You'll hang onto me." She says, brushing off his concerns. "I won't have you ride a dragon on your own. It took me some time to get used to it, I wouldn't expect you to be ready by the time we reach King's Landing. Perhaps eventually, if you're up for it."

"Your Grace, I truly appreciate this honor but…" Tyrion looks down in shame, "I just don't know if I can…"

"Varys told me you went down and unlocked Viserion and Rhaegal from their chains, alone and unafraid."

"I was drunk as well, in case he left that part out. When it was over I told him to punch me in the face if I ever did anything that stupid again. I'm pretty sure climbing on board Drogon, whether alone or with you, will warrant that punch." Tyrion sets the empty goblet on the table and runs a hand over his tired face and bushy beard. "As much as I hate to point it out, I am a half-man, Daenerys… If it flies too fast, if I lose my balance or my grip—one mistake and I'm free-falling to my death."

"I won't let that happen. You can trust me." Dany says, "I asks you if I was ready and you told me without a shadow of a doubt that I was and I believed you. Believe me when I tell you that you are ready. I need you at my side when I take the Iron Throne."

Tyrion admires her beauty, and feels a stirring in his heart. Blushing, he says "When I was a child… I always dreamed of riding a dragon."

"So did I," Dany grins, sipping the last of her goblet, "Does this mean you accept?"

Tyrion bows his head and nods, choking on his own words. "I may be the first dwarf to ever ride a dragon. My father would be _so_ proud."


	11. Sam I

Sam

Samwell Tarly didn't ask for the chair he sat on to groan, but groan away it did. His cheeks flush red, trying to grin away the embarrassing moment, but for all good that did. The old men that sat at the table before him are stone-faced. All of them clinks every time they move, wearing a great many chains around their necks and faded, gray robes. Sam guesses each and every one of these maesters is well-along in their years though nowhere near as old as Aemon had been when he passed. Clearing his throat, Sam asks, "Forgive me, but which one of you is the Archmaester?"

None of them answer. All of their wizened, wrinkled faces pointing at him and none of them uttering a sound. Sam looks between them all growing more and more uncomfortable by the second. He clears his throat again, "I was told that, uhm… That, uh, Archmaester Archybald wanted to… uhm… Is he, is he here?"

"Archmaester is under the weather currently." Remarks one of the maesters with a croak.

"I see, so then, uhm, will you guys be the ones who decide if I make it in or not then?"

None answer. Sam feels like he is talking to The Wall.

"You see, my name's Samwell Tarly and I've come all the way here from Castle Black to be trained as a Maester."

"We have… the Lord Commander's… letter." Mumbles one of the older maesters in the center of the conclave, his eyes squinting so tightly he could've been sleeping.

"Right then you know why I'm here?" Sam raises an eyebrow.

No response.

"So, uhm, what do I need to do?"

For a minute Sam thinks his question had fallen on deaf ears. But then one of the maesters raises his hand and picks up a scroll from the desk they all sat behind. As he flips through its pages Sam admires the room he is in. They are overlooking the very city of Oldtown itself, at the very top of the giant, white tower where chambers full of books are kept for only the most experienced maesters. It is a shame really he can't get a better look at some of these books. He is almost positive there was be something about The White Walkers in one of them…

"Not just anyone can join our order." Says the Maester with the scroll, his beard as white as his eyebrows. "You must prove you are capable of handling the stress of study. For it is a laborious journey ahead of you. Once you begin you must never leave the tower, for it is forbidden. We know also of the… woman you bring with you. She is forbidden from entering the tower, for women are nothing but a hindrance on knowledge's growth... Understand?

"Right." Sam grimaces, "Can I at least go see them at the doors to the tower? That way neither of us are really breaking any rules, right?" Sam asks with a hopeful tone, yet the silence that answers him makes his heart plummet. "Right, forbidden. Got it. What else is forbidden if you don't mind me asking?"

There is a rustle of disturbance between all ten of them, clearly perturbed by this.

"What? It was a simple question?"

"We heard the tone in your voice, young man." Grunts the squinty-eyed Maester.

"Is sarcasm forbidden too? I'm sorry, I'm going to need to write this all down." Sam says, giggling at his own joke to try and lighten the mood yet it seems to have the opposite effect on his crowd.

"No respect for maesters these days." Laments one of the old men.

"He doesn't take us seriously." Says another.

"I don't see much with this one." Whispers the white haired Maester.

"You don't see anything these days." Jokes another Maester, getting a couple others to grunt with laughter.

Suddenly all of them are talking at once and Sam can't keep up. "He's too young." "He makes light of our order." "He's green as grass." "The watch has fallen on hard times to send a man such as this here."

"Excuse me, uhm…" Sam raises a finger up to try and get a word in but they aren't paying much attention to him now. Several are struggling to get up from their chairs. Sam knew he screwed up. He needed to fix this somehow. Clearing his throat one last time, Sam shouts over them, "EXCUSE ME!"

Like magic, all ten of them shut up. Even the squinty-eyed Maester has both eyes wide open now in shock. "Now that I have your attention, I would like to tell all of you that I am more than bloody qualified for being a Maester. I joined The Night's Watch because my father would have seen me dead if I didn't, and when I got there I was no man at all. But then I went north of The Wall. Can any of you say that? I traveled with Lord Commander Jeor Mormont to the Fist of the First Men where we fought against The Night's King and his army of the Dead. I only barely managed to survive that, but I did! Can any of you say that? I found my wife, Gilly and I protected them from a White Walker. I killed it with dragonglass! Can any of you say you've done that?! So excuse me but I won't sit here wasting MY time with a bunch of old natters that don't know how important it is that I become a Maester!"

"Well said."

A voice behind Sam nearly causes him to topple out of his chair with surprise. Standing there is a man much younger than the rest of the maesters, though roughly just as old as Jeor Mormont had been. He has a grizzly, black goatee and black, expressionless eyes. His black hair is tied up in a pony-tail behind his head, and he wore black robes. Of all the maesters Sam had seen in his life, this man wore the most chains out of any of them. They all clink and rattle with so much weight it isn't unreasonable to think they were responsible for the hunch in his back. "Sorry this one's late, Samwell Tarly. As these old natters surely informed you, sickness and old age does not sleep well together."

"Archmaester Archybald?" Sam asks and the old, hunchbacked man nods with a smile, clapping him on the back. "Oh, uhm, sorry… How much of that did you hear?"

"All of it, Sam. All of it." Then the Archmaester did something Sam never would've expected. He barks with laughter, slapping at his knee repeatedly, hooting with joy. "Look at their faces! _Hahahaha_!" The rest of the elderly maesters stiffen uneasily, casting the newcomer grumpy glares. Sam is dumbfounded. _This_ _is the Archmaester?_

"Samwell, come with me." The Archmaester says, turning around to head for the doorway. The chair groans again as Sam got up and follows at his side. The murmurs of disgruntled protests went unheard behind them. "You impressed me in there, Sam."

"Thank you, Archmaester Archybald."

"Please, Sam, call me Archie. We're going to be seeing a lot of each other from here on out and I'm getting old. I don't have time for pleasantries and honorifics. Speak freely, as if I were one of your brothers at The Wall."

 _Strange_ , Sam thinks, _he didn't sound like he'd been sick at all_. "Did you test me back there, Arch—Archie? I-I mean, was that some kind of…?"

"Knew you'd catch on eventually. Ha-ha!" Laughs the Archmaester, turning to a door at the end of the small hall that Sam had never seen before now. Stairs circle upward, leading to the highest level. Beyond that is the tower's roof where the great fire burns endlessly. "I've got good news, Sam. You're going to be a Maester. But first, tell me more about what you told the others. In detail. I want to know it all." The highest room is a cramped, stone enclosure with a single, circular wooden table in the center. A distinct, black candle is on this table. It is unlit and beside itself, shining in the darkness.

Sam told him everything. About Jon, The White Walkers, their ability to raise the dead, dragonglass, the great battles that took place, and everything else he knew up until his departure. He left out Gilly, deciding best not to bring her up again and ruin his chance. "I haven't gotten word from Jon since. I don't even know if The Wall still stands or if my friends are dead. All I know is that he sent me here to learn what I can to defeat the biggest threat to Westeros we've ever seen."

The Archmaester listens with quiet interest, frowning down at the glass candle before him. "The Seven Kingdoms fight each other like dogs while demons gather over our heads." He mutters, wiping his eyes. "Samwell, are you prepared for the tasks ahead?"

"Yes, Archmaester." Sam stood straighter, determined.

"To learn about the threat beyond The Wall would be to learn about the higher mysteries. Not very many maesters attempt these studies. It is in fact the one area of expertise I still feel I have much to learn in. This will be the first chain you will earn, but only after a great deal of reading, I'm afraid. And if you wish to read about the higher mysteries, well…" Archmaester Archybald gestures to the glass candle. "Once you've unlocked the mystery behind how to light this candle you will be ready to begin your training."

Sam raises his eyebrows, confused and bewildered. "This candle here?"

"Yes."

"Uhm… Well, it's made of obsidian."

"Correct."

"Glass can't catch fire."

"Well you better get to work then, Hahahaha!" The Archmaester cackles, "And be quick about it. You have one day and one night to work it out and if you haven't by then, well, I'm afraid it was nice to meet you!"

"W-Wait, I only have that much time? H-How can I?"

"I don't know, Samwell! Well, I do _know_ , ha-ha, but that's the test isn't it? I'll see you tomorrow, Sam! Don't leave the room unless you wish to forfeit. I'll have food brought to you. Something tells me you'll need it, Hahahaha!" And with that the old man left him, slamming the door shut and leaving Samwell alone with the glass candle.


	12. Jaime I

Jaime

When Cersei sits the Iron Throne, a thick tension fills the crowded room that puts everyone watching on edge, including the Queen's brother. Qyburn is announcing that any and all slander of the Queen will be punishable by death, and tells the Queensguard to let the accused in. Jaime watches with batted breath as twenty men and women are brought into the throne room, their hands shackled and their faces bruised. Half-naked some are. All of them are starving, dirt-ridden, and poor; folk from flea bottom if Jaime is correct to judge. They are all lined up and brought to their knees before the Queen. The last one to enter is a little boy, no older than Tommen was.

"The people you see before you today stand accused of slandering the Queen's name. Today they will face her judgement!" Qyburn speaks to the audience of nobles. Many of them look terrified and concerned. Jaime looks to his sister, knowing already what she must be planning to do.

"Let them speak." Cersei says, "I will know what each and every one of them has been saying."

One of the Queensguard steps up and kicks a man on his knees in the back, pushing him forward. The man, balding and covered in disease ridden marks on his face, fearfully cringes and cries out for help from the crowd. "Somebody do something! I've done nothing wrong!"

"Tell the Queen your slanderous words and then you will receive your punishment." Qyburn tells him in an almost soothing way.

"I-I said nothing slanderous! I never said anything, m'lords! Please, you have to believe me!"

Jaime leans in and whispers in his sister's ear, "Cersei, is this really necessary?" She doesn't look away from the groveling peasant before her, even as Jaime says, "We can't prove these people did anything wrong. Let them go and prove you can also show mercy."

"My little birds never lie, Your Grace." Is all Qyburn says and it is all he needs to say.

"There will be no mercy for liars and criminals." Cersei replies, glancing a nod to The Mountain who walks up to the groveling man and seizes him by his throat, tossing him backward into the crowd of accused. "If no one wants to confess then I shall move straight ahead to the judgement."

"Your Grace, please! My son is _innocent_!" Cries one of the women standing accused, gripping the little boy's shoulder fiercely while tears roll down her cheeks. "He doesn't understand anything, he only repeats what he hears! He never meant any harm!"

"And what of you? His mother?" Cersei asks, raising an eyebrow. "You were also heard slandering my name."

The woman holds her tongue, and Jaime wishes she'd stay that way. "Aye, I'm guilty. But not my son. Please, Your Grace. Spare my son's life!"

"The guilty do not negotiate under my rule." Cersei says, "Tell me what it was that you called me?"

"Your Grace, _please_ , he is my only son!"

"Tell me what you slandered your Queen's name with and I will _consider_ sparing the boy." Cersei says, rolling her eyes with a smirk. Jaime can sense this was a trap, but what choice did the poor woman have?

The accused mother's voice trembles with fear. "I called you what everyone in the city calls you now... _The Mad Queen_."

"I see, and what would The Mad Queen do if she heard you calling her this? What do you think would happen?" Cersei asks curiously.

"Please, spare my son. He only repeats what he hears at home! He never meant anything by it! He doesn't even understand what it means!"

"Let's let him speak for himself." Cersei says, "Come forth child."

The boy is pushed forward by The Mountain, who looms over him, blanketing the child is his intimidating shadow. Qyburn steps up to him and softly says, "Speak boy, do not be afraid. Only the truth can save you. What did you say about our Queen?"

"I… I don't know… I don't remember." The boy whispers, his eyes bulging with terror and confusion as his mother weeps behind him. "I was with my friends and one of them asks me what I thought about the Queen and I told him all I know is my mom says she's mad."

"Does our Queen appear _mad_ to you?" Qyburn asks.

"She scares me." The boy admits, close to tears.

"You've committed a great crime, yet you haven't even realized it. Your Grace, there is an argument to be had for sparing him…" Qyburn says as he smiles down at the young lad.

"Then anyone can claim ignorance to their crimes." Cersei counters, "No, I've heard enough. Mount their heads on spikes along the battlements for all to see."

An uproar of protests burst forth from the accused _and_ the audience. The Mountain draws his greatsword, and the rest of the Queensguard copy him, filling the air with the sound of swords sliding from their sheaths. Among them is Jaime Lannister, whose body moves on its own, rushing over to stand between The Mountain and the boy in defiance. Everyone watching gasps. Cersei stands from her throne, glaring down at her brother. "What is the meaning of this?"

"I won't have you murder an innocent child for some imagined crimes." Jaime says, deciding enough was enough. No more would he be subservient to madness. "Stand down your guards! Listen to reason, Cersei! I beg of you!"

"Please! I don't want to die!" Cries the kid beneath him.

All eyes are on the Queen. Her lips tighten with anger, her fists clench, yet her stature is unwavering. "What was that, brother? I couldn't quite hear you… Ser Jaime Lannister, I take you mean to volunteer. Go ahead, do your duty to your Queen. Unless you wish to share in their consequences?" The Mountain steps closer to him, unafraid of the Kingslayer, both hands fastened around the hilt of his greatsword.

 _She means to kill me if I disobey her now._ "Cersei, you know I can't do that. I won't."

"You will." She says, "I command you to bring me their heads, starting with the child's."

"No!" Wails the accused mother, trying to grab her son but Lannister guards hold her back.

"And if I refuse?!" Jaime spits, tears stinging his eyes.

"You don't want to refuse." Cersei threatens, her own eyes as dry as her tone.

Slowly, Jaime turns and faces the small boy on the floor. The young, confused child stares up at him with fear that makes him sick. As he lifts his sword with his only hand, Jaime is reminded of the young boy he once pushed out of a window in Winterfell for spying on him and his sister… _The things we do for love_.

"I'm sorry." Jaime's lip trembles before he swings his blade to the song of screams.


	13. Bran II

Bran

It's hardly any warmer inside of Castle Black's quarters but it is still dry and nice to be out of the snow. Bran has a bed now, and he lays nearly hidden underneath furs atop it while Meera bustles around the room preparing food for him. She doesn't seem nearly as worried about The Wall's new crack as he is. When she brings him a plate with hard bread and a steaming bowl of soup, he thanks her and she sits at the edge of his bed, wiping her forehead with a cloth.

"Are you alright?" Bran quietly asks her.

Meera casts him an exhausted smile. "I'm fine, Bran. Just tired. My hands and feet are sore."

"You don't have to cook and clean for me, you know."

"Then how will you get it done? Have you learned how to walk and not told me?"

They chuckle. Bran says, "I just don't want you to exhaust yourself. You look tired. Get some rest tonight. You don't need to stay up while I sleep anymore."

"I will once we are on the road again tomorrow." Meera counters, standing back up again to go and stoke the fire in their hearth.

"We can't leave." Bran tells her, staring blankly at his food with no hunger inside him.

Meera frowns at him, "What do you mean? Of course we can. That's why we came here, is to leave."

"You saw how The Wall started to break as soon as we passed through it. Right as it happened, I felt the mark on my wrist where The Night King touched me throb with pain."

"It's not starting to break… That wasn't your fault, Bran. Your wrist throbbing could just be a side-effect of the bruising. It was only a coincidence and you know it."

"I don't know it. I don't know nearly as much as I'd hoped for at this point…"

"You know your brother is a Targaryen." Meera points out, "You have to tell him. He needs to know."

"Why? Why is that more important than making sure The Wall doesn't come down?"

"Because you saw it in the visions, Bran. My father used to tell us that the weirwood trees are special and that only the Three-Eyed Raven was able to use them properly. You saw your half-brother being born, a secret no one else in the world knows except you and my father now. If you don't tell him who knows what might happen… It could be even worse if we don't leave."

"Then how do you explain that crack? And the mark? I only ever felt it hurt like that once before and that was right after The Night King grabbed me."

"The Wall is just getting old. Ice cracks, doesn't it?" Meera looks down, not even believing her own argument. "We just don't know, Bran. But what we do know is that Jon is important for bringing down The White Walkers, and that being a Targaryen must have something to do with it if that's what the visions have shown you. My father was there the day Jon was born. It could be that he knows more about this. We need to leave, now, before the long night comes. There's nothing more the two of us can do here anyway."

Bran knows she is right, but doesn't feel comfortable with this. He eats his food, worrying about The Wall and examining the bruises around his wrist, wondering if they will ever fade away in time. The next day, Dolorous Edd comes to see them off and wish them well. He gives them a horse for Meera to ride and drag Bran behind with in his sled, much to Meera's relief.

"Thank you, Lord Commander." Bran says, "I will let Jon know The Wall still stands and of what you did for us."

"It was no trouble, I only ask that you make sure Jon sends us more men and provisions soon. We run low up here quickly, even with less than fifty men to feed…" Dolorous Edd sighs.

As Bran heads out into the cold, blowing snowstorm with Meera controlling the reigns, he looks back up at The Wall for one last glance. The fissure that had rippled down from the top to the bottom in a jagged line, threatening to split The Wall in half, entices Bran to turn back, but he resists... He prays no more harm will come to it as the horse begins to trot south through the heavy snows for Winterfell.


	14. Victarion I

Victarion

The stinging smell of fire is in the air.

The sea breeze carries embers from the destruction of Volantis into the Iron Victory's shadow. The massive war ship is one of the largest of its kind. The Kraken of House Greyjoy is displayed upon every sail and even the bow of the ship itself, structured in the sea monster's likeness with long, thick, wooden tentacles squirming their way down the length of the galley. It was carved this way to strike fear into its enemy's hearts. Volantis just three days past learned this fear when Victarion's fleet appeared on the southern horizon. The Commonfolk pleaded for mercy after a feeble attempt to fight them off. The people of Volantis had numbers, but the Ironborn had strength and fury and the Drowned God on their side. Victarion showed no mercy, declaring the city theirs and commanding anyone with information on the Dragon Queen to come forth. Not many stepped up to the call, and none had anything Victarion didn't already know.

So the city burns and he was done with the place. They sailed far from the south to come here and stop Daenerys Targaryen before she can reach Westeros, yet to no avail. She'd left Slaver's Bay, renaming it Dragon's Bay, with what some are calling the largest fleet of ships the world has ever seen. Victarion ignored such things. No fleet can stand against the Iron Victory's. Victarion is undefeated in naval combat, and plans on remaining so.

Victarion Greyjoy stands well over six feet tall, weighing in at over 250lbs, and his scar-streaked face would be enough to scare anyone let alone his size. His black beard is long and braided, his hair swept back and blowing in the wind. His armor he wears at all times, the kraken helm saved for combat is curled under his armpit while the other grips the railing. Behind him his motley crew of mutants are laughing and jesting with each other like children. Victarion disapproved of such antics, but after such a fortuitous invasion he felt they deserve some time to enjoy themselves. Ratfly has his gangly arms around two bruised saltwives who were once prostitutes in the city and are now his personal concubines. He laughs as he whispers perversions in their ears and when they try to fight him off he beats them with his iron fists down into his cabin, laughing nonsensically all the way about how much fun they are having. Jharax and Hulbert are locked in a game of cards, drinking every time they lost and getting rowdier by the minute. Jharax is a Dothraki, his skin as brown as his loosely braided hair, while Hulbert is an ex-Second Son, one of his arms mutated and shriveled, though still able to hold up a pair of cards. Then there is Strong Belwas. The massive eunuch is sitting near the mast of _The Iron Victory_ with his legs sticking out over the edge, his fat fingers digging through a bowl of spicy honey-locusts. He wears little clothing, and has no shame in his rotund body, nor the tapestry of scars that covers him head to toe. Victarion had only recently picked the mute up, and he is still a mystery to him. All he knows of Strong Belwas was his inane ability to fight and win.

Then there is The Red Woman.

The High Priestess of Volantis Kinvara watches as the great flames waged by Victarion and his fleet burns high into the sky, clouding it with pillars of black smoke. From here he cannot see her face, and wonders if she is crying. With a sick smile, Victarion approaches her, crossing the deck of his ship while his men all holler with good cheer around him. As he comes upon her she turns to look at him and he sees that her face is dry and her expression cold. "How does it feel?" He asks undeterred, "To worship the fire all your life only to watch your home burn?"

"You would be mistaken in thinking you know anything about me. Volantis was never my home, Victarion Greyjoy." The Red Woman responds, her voice calm and unafraid. "My home has been gone for longer than you know."

"Well that sounds like a story." Victarion says, crossing his arms and leaning against the mast. "You convinced my men to spare you and bring you aboard my ship. What is it you can offer me? I have no need for another saltwife, even one as radiant as you. Your beauty will get you far with my men, but not with me. Can't blame them though, can yah? I can't imagine the last time Ratfly had a decent pair of legs around him." The Red Woman only stares at him, her face unchanging in its blankness. Victarion feels a stirring of unease all of the sudden he can't explain. "So tell me, what is it I need you for?"

" _Tell me_ , Victarion, have you ever spoken with your Drowned God?"

 _Is this a trick?_ "No man can speak to a God. But I have heard the Drowned God's whispers when I was young. The Drowned God is the one true God."

"That is where you are wrong." She smiles then, and the uneasiness in his stomach squirms. "The Lord of Light is the one true God and he has chosen you, Victarion Greyjoy. I have seen you in the flames."

"What is this nonsense?" He asks, but she goes on before he can say more.

"You will find Daenerys Stormborn and make her your Queen. She will be your key to the Iron Throne, where you will rule The Seven Kingdoms." Lady Kinvara steps closer to him, "I have the Lord of Light's will, and can grant you great power and council in the wars to come. Allow me to join you, and let both the Lord of the Light and the Drowned God be one in the same as it should be, for those whispers you heard when you were a child are from the same God that has sent me here to you this day."

Victarion is quiet, considering her words with suspicious apprehension. "What power does a woman have that I can't?" He asks, and her expression changes to cold anger. "Tell me in plain words, or I'll throw you overboard myself and watch you race the sharks back to shore."

"I can see the future, Victarion Greyjoy, you fool." She says, getting close enough now to fondle his gnarled and war-beaten face. Her fingers are warm, almost burning to the touch. Victarion grabs her arm before she can pull away.

"Call me a fool again, woman, I warn you…"

"You will not harm me. I know where Daenerys is going, who she is with, how many she has, and I know what you will need to convince the Dragon Queen to marry you. But you will need me if you wish to accomplish any of these things. Without me, you and your fleet will burn in dragon fire before any of you can do a thing. Let me show you."

She leads him inside of Victarion's cabin. He follows her, feeling a strange sense of purpose in his steps. Something about this Red Woman infuriates him, yet entices him all the same. Inside his cabin, Kinvara lights several candles and lines them up on the captain's table, five in a row. Watching her, it seems as if she is able to light them with only her finger tips… yet such magic doesn't exist, surely. She beckons Victarion closer and he does so, the two of them peering into the fire.

Quickly Victarion feels like a fool and thinks to tell her this was a convincing trick but he would rather watch her swim than watch candles dance. As he opens his mouth, preparing to look away, the flames change, as if some wind is giving them a new shape. Victarion's mouth drops, his mind going blank. At his side The Red Woman smiles seductively and says, "There it is. The dragon that will burn you all to ash. There she is, riding atop it."

He can see it all. The great dragon in the flames is breathing down death upon _The Iron Victory_. _It is all true_. "This… this is magic…" He mutters in disbelief.

"This is what waits for you, Victarion Greyjoy, unless you let me help you."


	15. Davos I

Davos

When Davos was summoned for a war council early that wintery morning, he rushes out of his chambers without delay. It is a good feeling, having a King he can respect and follow again. Stannis was flawed in so many ways, allowing his own daughter to be burned at the stake and believing in The Red Woman's falsehoods. Jon's faults are more that of his father's, too honest for his own good. Jon had called his Bannermen from all across the north to discuss their future and Davos is sure he would need to be present, yet when he arrives he is not as early as he'd hoped. The Lords are already gathered in the great hall around the high table, Jon in the center. On either side of him is the wildling Tormund Giantsbane, Lady Lyanna Mormont of Bear Island, Lords Cerwyn, Manderly, and Glover, and finally Petyr Baelish, though he is the only one standing. _Sansa is not here_ , Davos notices at once, wondering if she was still upset with Jon.

Lord Manderly is in the middle of a speech when Davos takes a seat at the table next to where Littlefinger stands. "They're calling her The Mad Queen. She used wildfire to destroy the Sept of Baelor and murdered her son, King Tommen, in order to take the throne."

"Are you positive the King was murdered as you say? Were you there to witness it?" Littlefinger asks.

Lord Manderly shoots Lord Baelish a distrustful glare. "Word has spread all throughout The Seven Kingdoms, in case you hadn't heard. Or do you claim The Mad Queen is innocent?"

"The Mad Queen Cersei murdered countless people, but that does not necessarily mean she murdered her son, Lord Manderly." Lord Baelish tells him, "Still, I was not there either and cannot say for certain. The fact remains that Cersei will pose a problem… A problem with only one solution."

"What solution is that?" Davos asks, raising his eyebrow.

"We must prepare for war." Littlefinger says with a knowing look to Jon, "It is the only logical choice, Your Grace."

"You do not decide if we got to war! Only the King in the North makes that decision!" Snaps Lady Mormont fiercely. Everyone, including Littlefinger, is silenced by the little lady's presence as she glares around the table at them all. "I fear no Queen too cowardly to fight her own battles! If Jon wants to go to war, _then so be it_ , but let us not forget our one true enemy _beyond The Wall_!"

As always, whenever The White Walkers are mentioned, the rest of the northern Lords all nervously adjust themselves in their seats, casting each other narrow glances. Davos can tell they are not entirely convinced the threat beyond The Wall is real. "Nevertheless, the Lannisters have one of the largest armies in the realm, not to mention the capital walls to defend them." Lord Manderly says wearily, "It would be a fool's errand to try and attack them as Lord Baelish suggests."

"I never said to attack, only to go to war. It is likely Cersei will make the first move, I express caution. Be prepared for war when the time comes. I know Cersei personally, she will not let you take the north without a fight." Petyr looks serious, not a sign of a smile on his face, as he speaks directly to Jon without acknowledging the others.

"The Mad Queen is dangerous!" Lord Glover blurts out, "Who knows how much wildfire she might still possess!? We must take it from her before she can use it against us after we've already lost so many! We cannot let her invade the north without a fight! We should go to war!"

"Enough." Davos grunts, glaring at them all. "You all shout back and forth without letting your King have his say! Calm yourselves and let Jon speak!"

The quiet King nods to Davos, raising his hands up so that his elbows rest on the table while crossing his fingers together. "Did Queen Cersei play a part in the execution of my father?" He looks to Littlefinger as he asks this.

"Without a doubt. I was there that day, Your Grace. We had all advised King Joffrey to send Eddard Stark to The Wall as punishment for his supposed treachery. Yet the Queen often counseled the boy while they were alone, and to my understanding she encouraged her son to call for your father's head. Joffrey was only a boy, but he always adhered to his mother." He smiles sweetly as he finishes speaking.

Jon looks down at his gloved hands, remembering the day he found out about his father's execution… He'd nearly deserted The Wall that day, if not for his brothers. If not for Sam. "If we have learned of the new Queen then by now she has heard of us."

"This is true," Davos says, "I feel I need to remind everyone in this room that the real war isn't with The Mad Queen. It's with the army of the dead." Lady Mormont shoots him an approving nod as he says this while Littlefinger rolls his eyes. "Instead of fighting amongst ourselves like we've been doing for years, I advise talking to her first. Let's see if she's willing to listen to reason. Perhaps we can form some kind of an alliance between the north and south without any bloodshed?"

"I would rather die than break bread with the Lannisters!" Lord Cerwyn growls with murmurs of agreement from both Lords Manderly and Glover. "The Mad Queen isn't just a _title!_ She is not to be trusted. We must gather our men and prepare for battle!"

"Silence you old fools." Lady Mormont snaps, "I agree with Ser Davos… Our war is with the army of the dead that comes for us all! If The Mad Queen wants a fight then we will give her one, but if a truce will bring our armies together then I say we give it a shot! We stand together or we die alone!"

"Careful, She-bear," Lord Glover narrows his eyes at the young girl in their midst, "I have little patience for being talked down to, especially by children."

"Enough." Jon says and they all fall silent, watching him. "We will not go to war unnecessarily. I will speak with Queen Cersei myself. Send her a raven, let her know the King of the North invites her to Winterfell. I don't expect her to come, but I do expect a reply. I would unite the realm with her help." He looks up at Littlefinger, who clearly disapproves along with most of the other lords. "If she will not accept terms of peace then I will not give her a second chance."

"Neither will she, Your Grace." Lord Baelish replies.

"I will send the raven at once," Davos nods, unable to prevent the relieved smile that spreads under his beard. "Will that be all?"

"Before you go, Davos, I have an assignment for you. Lords, I bid the rest of you farewell and offer you all of Winterfell for shelter while the storm blows."

Once Jon's Bannermen shuffle out of the hall and Davos was alone with the King, Jon asks if he would like to have a drink.

"On occasion I will drink." Davos says, "It is a little too early for me, Your Grace."

"I know I could use one." Jon Snow sighs heavily. "And I don't even drink…well, much."

Davos smirks and says, "Though I hear a good drink can loosen a man's nerves and give him the courage to do what needs to be done."

"Then I shall be known from here on as the Drunk King of the North if that's what it takes." Jon jests and Davos chuckles. "Ser Davos, I asks you here on a serious matter yet I don't know exactly how to ask you."

"Whatever you need, Your Grace." Davos assures him, "I'm here to serve."

"Before you arrived we were discussing another threat… The Ironborn. Euron Greyjoy, the last King's brother, has taken the Salt Throne for himself and has launched ships inland. Reports say they mean to attack the Neck. Lords Glover, Cerwyn, and Manderly were especially concerned with this, and similar speeches of war were discussed... I did not make a decision then, but I've made one now. You are to go to Euron Greyjoy, in person, before he can cause too much harm. Offer him peace, an alliance, in return for his compliance with the North he can have the Dreadfort, now that the Boltons are no more. I understand he is chopping down forests that belong to the Crannogmen. Offer Euron as many trees as he likes from our Wolfswood if that is what it will take. We need his men on our side for the war to come, not stabbing us from behind. Are you willing to do this, Ser Davos?"

"I understand completely and am more than willing, Your Grace." Davos tells him. _Though I'm not sure if I can convince a man like Euron Greyjoy of anything._

"You will be risking your life. I would send a raven yet with Euron traveling by sea and not knowing where he'll land first it's impossible. Find him, bring him my message. I will write it down and seal it myself so he knows you are honest. If you think your life is at risk then abandon the mission, I will not have you dying this way."

"I'm honored, Your Grace." Davos says, and he means it. "I know very little about the Greyjoys. I've never actually met one, only heard stories of their piracy out on the open seas. I will learn as much as I can before meeting the man."

"Thank you, Ser Davos." Jon says earnestly as they both get up from the table. He reaches out with a black, gloved hand and Davos takes it. They shake and Davos hopes this isn't the last time he would be standing before his King.

Jon Snow says, "Ride with haste, I will need you here when the time comes to meet this Mad Queen."


	16. Sansa II

Sansa

The winter snowstorm blows winds so wild and deafening it forces the Commonfolk in the courtyard to shout when they wish to be heard. At the gates, Sansa finds Littlefinger with Lord Royce and other Knights from the Vale. From a distance it was impossible to hear their muffled voices. She approaches quietly from behind so he will not see her. The closer she gets, the clearer their conversation became. "—I will stay in Winterfell, where I can be useful. Take the Knights of the Vale and ride for—" Another huge rush of cold wind cut off Lord Baelish's words. Sansa is only fifteen feet away yet she can't hear them for nearly a minute, until the wind dies and Petyr's voice picks back up again, "—I will be in touch with Lord Arryn soon."

Lord Yohn Royce bows and takes leave with the Knights of the Vale. Littlefinger turns and finds Sansa standing in the snowy clearing, her expression as cold as the wind.

"Lady Sansa." Littlefinger greets her, pausing before stepping closer. "Perhaps we can speak under shelter from the snow?"

The last thing she wants is to talk to him. She wants to hurt him, to hit him, to stab him, to make him pay for what he's done, but she says nothing and instead follows him inside the stables where several horses are grazing. Sansa keeps her distance, knowing better than to let him get close to her. Once inside, Littlefinger brushes the snowflakes off his shoulders, removing his gloves and resting them on the pen beside him. Sansa waits for him to speak, to offer some clever line, or a witty joke. Instead, he says, "You must be furious with me."

"Furious? No. I'm more than that. Disgusted. Humiliated. Tell me something, Littlefinger, what exactly do you hope to get from marrying me? I do not want you nor will I ever. I have nothing I can give you willingly. I don't care if you love me or if you only want to use my family name to gain power. Whatever the reason is, you are a despicable man for going behind my back through Jon, Petyr Baelish, and I will never love you."

"I know." Littlefinger says and for the first time ever she sees outright sorrow on his face, and it catches her off-guard. "I know we will never be together the way I want. If I had what I wanted right now you wouldn't be angry with me, you'd be happy. But I feel it is my duty to remind you, Lady Sansa, I gave you the choice to accept my help at The Wall. I then gave you the choice in the godswood to take me as your husband. I gave you the choice to take Winterfell for yourself before Jon—with the support of the Vale we could have accomplished it. I gave you every choice along the way. You decided to reject my proposal and you decided to trust your brother as King. You also decided to make me a broken promise... Now, because of your trust—your weakness—he will be the one to decide your fate, not you or I."

"You could have taken the gold!" Sansa yells, fighting back tears—she would not show Littlefinger weakness. "You could have taken any reward you liked but you threatened Jon instead!"

"Funny, how a warning can so often be perceived as a threat in this world." Littlefinger says, a mocking smile on his face again. "I never said I would betray the Starks. Nor will I. Your brother is my King now. What was I to do? Give up and see you married to… someone else? No. You are mine, Sansa Stark. You will always be mine. With me you could overcome every weakness holding you back. With me, we could rule The Seven Kingdoms without ever taking orders from another again… With me you could become the Queen you were born to be." He was closer to her now, a shadow over his face as he draws himself in. Sansa backs away, her heart hammering in her chest.

"You will never sit the Iron Throne, Littlefinger." Sansa tells him, her voice trembling more than she approves of.

Littlefinger only smiles as he says, "Perhaps you are right. You asks what my goal was, what my plan is, and yes, to sit the Iron Throne is my ultimate wish. But you were once angry with me for giving you to Ramsay Bolton. It pained me more than words can express to hear from your very own lips what he did to you… I wanted to prove that even your half-brother is capable of doing what I've done. Only instead of handing you to a monster, he'll be handing you to me." For a moment, Sansa thinks he will reach out to her then and take her face as he was wont to do, but his hands remain at his sides.

"Jon is nothing like you." Sansa tells him, "You're a different kind of monster than Ramsay was, Lord Baelish. Some might say you're the worst kind. If Jon agrees to marry me to you, it will not be because he wished it so. It'll be because you made it so. And don't think that I will ever forget that."

"I admire your conviction, My Lady. I only pray your half-brother continues to deserve your undying trust. You were not there today at the war council. I suggest speaking with Jon about our current situation with The Mad Queen, Cersei. Good day, Sansa." Littlefinger bows his head and brushes past her without another word into the blinding, white snow.


	17. Podrick I

Podrick

" _Brienne_!" Podrick shouts, tumbling through the wilderness with his arms flailing, each step threatening to slip out from under him and send him face-planting into the mud. He was lost, and his partner and friend was gone. The Crannogmen Pod had heard about, it must've been them. The marsh-men used guerrilla warfare to take down their prey. Imagining the horrors they were inflicting upon Lady Brienne fills Pod with a grief so great he just _has_ to find her. " _Brienne_! _Where are you_?! _BRIENNE_!" _Let the Crannogmen hear me_ , _if they would take me I could reunite with her again._ He had been a craven and hid behind the bushes, watching as men in tattered clothes and pale, green skin dragged his Lady and The Red Woman off. Pod runs on numb, wobbly legs, shouting until he was out of breath for what seems like hours on end. The vast woods went on for miles in all directions, a thick fog clouding his path while distant howls carry in the wind from wolves, and Pod fears he will never find Lady Brienne… or his way out.


	18. Brienne II

Brienne

Brienne of Tarth's throat is raw and swollen, making it hard to breath. Something scratches and bristles around her neck, slightly choking her. Brienne opens her eyes but everything was a blurry mess. Low, faint hissing sounds come from some far off place as dark, malformed shapes materialize in and out of focus, speaking in whispers. Brienne turns her head, wincing at the pain that tugs around her neck, and sees the red visage of Melisandre standing beside her…

"She's waking." She hears one of the whisperers say, and the others hush.

Brienne realizes it's a rope noose around her throat, and that both her hands and feet are tied together. She tugs at her thick, hempen bindings until her wrists threaten to break, but it is no use.

A man stands before her, frail, hairy, and hunched over. He wears a rough-spun tunic and leathers, and sticking to his feet are sandals made of wood. His hair hung wet in rags around his wrinkled, disturbed expression. The thing that stood out above all else was the fact that this man is riddled with greyscale. His entire face, neck, chest, right down to the flesh on his feet was cracked, gray-green, and peeling. His beard was mossy and wet, his eyes wide and quivering as they examine Brienne and The Red Woman.

"What is this?" Brienne hisses at him, realizing with horror that she was standing nearly naked before a crowd of people, all of them dressed in disheveled rags that barely cover their thin bodies. The men are unshaven, gaunt, and whisper with deep grunts while the women are homely and starved. All around them, tall, thick trees tower and sway in the mist. A great wall of rock surrounds the enclosure, and it takes Brienne a moment to realize there are small, boulder-shaped huts amidst the woods.

"You are in Greywater Watch, M'lady." Croaks the old man, walking with a limp and balancing on a jagged stick engraved with markings she cannot read from here. "As you can tell, you stand trial today for entering our territory, showing your sword, and being just a downright suspicious couple. I wasn't there, but I heard you two were arguing when my men found you. Before we hang you, it is our custom to give you a chance to defend yourself. Why should we let you live, M'lady?"

Brienne looks to The Red Woman who was beginning to stir in her bindings. _I can't believe I could be so dense as to get caught this way._ The old man watches her patiently, though the suspicion in his eyes was piercing. "Greywater Watch…" Brienne mutters, "This must be the courtyard."

"Not many live to say they've seen our fortress." The old, deformed man says with a smile, "Behind you is our keep, though depending on who you say you are, you may never get to lay eyes on it."

"My father told me of this place when I was a girl." Brienne remembers, "He told me the Crannogmen are a mysterious folk who dwell in the forest in a castle that can never be found unless one is given permission. He said Greywater Watch floats on the swamp, making it impossible to place on any map because the castle itself moves."

"Not all rumors are true, I'm afraid." The old man chuckles, "We are simply hidden in the fog well enough that finding our castle is nearly impossible. We mostly get deserters from some battle or another trying to flee through our swamp, getting lost, and dying from starvation, exhaustion or perhaps a lizard-lion. Yet until recently I've kept my men from taking in strangers."

"What changed, My Lord?" Brienne asks him, keeping her calm while Melisandre's eyes flutter open beside her.

"I won't tell you more until I hear a defense from you." Says the old man with a sigh, appearing tired.

"My name is Brienne of Tarth. I am Sansa Stark's Swornsword, riding back to Winterfell after… after failing the mission My Lady gave me." She says, shooting Melisandre a look to stay quiet while they talk. The Red Woman was realizing what was happening, looking both stunned and afraid up and down the length of her hangman's noose. Both of them are tied to the same, giant, gnarled tree, standing on wooden beams that can be kicked down to end their lives in an instant.

"Curious…" Mutters the old man with narrowed eyes, "Sansa Stark… I haven't seen her since she was a babe."

"You are Howland Reed, are you not, My Lord?" Brienne asks.

The old man nods. "Your father taught you well."

"My father taught me that House Reed has always been loyal to House Stark. You must release me so I may return to My Lady and defend her. In return you will have the gratitude of House Stark, I swear it on my honor." Brienne tells him, keeping her calm.

"Your honor?" Howland Reed asks, scratching his sandy-colored beard as he studies her. "Tell me, Lady Brienne, do you know what this is?" He beckons to one of his men and they bring forth Oathkeeper, encased in its sheath.

"That is _my_ sword." Brienne replies, unsure what the meaning of this was.

"Do you know what this _sword_ is?" Howland Reed asks heavily.

Brienne hesitates before responding, "It is Valyrian Steel."

Howland's smile disturbs her. "Correct. Valyrian Steel… Where did you acquire such a fine sword, My Lady?"

"Ser Jaime Lannister gave me that sword. I swore an oath to find Sansa Stark and keep her safe. I upheld that oath. When I attempted to return the sword, Jaime refused and said it was mine." Brienne says, unable to hide the pride from her tone of voice.

"The Kingslayer gave you this sword? Curious." Howland frowns, uglier than ever. "The Lannisters are an enemy of the North. Yet you claim to serve both Stark and Lannister?"

"I only serve Lady Sansa!" Brienne insists, "Jaime Lannister is only a friend."

The crowd hisses at this. Howland looks as though all joy has been drained of him as he says, "How do we know you do not speak lies? Anyone can claim to be Sansa Stark's Swornsword."

"She speaks the truth." Says Melisandre next to her, causing the whispers to silence. All eyes are on her now, including Brienne, who can't believe The Red Woman of all people is defending her.

Howland Reed approaches The Red Woman carefully, cautious of her even with a noose around her neck. "You are the notorious Red Woman I keep hearing tales about, aren't you?" He asks.

"My name is Melisandre. I was once Stannis Baratheon's Red Priestess but he fell… slain by this one." She looks at Brienne, not unkindly as she says this. "I then—"

"I knew a woman like you once." Howland interrupts her, "Once upon a time I caught greyscale from drinking with a stranger who claimed he was a merchant lost in my woods. He was gone by the time my symptoms began to show. I don't know what he gave me or why, but the disease broke out over my body like wildfire. I left Greywater Watch to die, rotting from a disease that was supposedly incurable, and traveled to Volantis where rumors of ancient healers could be found. I found a woman there, garbed in red much like yourself… wearing the same necklace you wear… She cured me of my disease for a price… I returned to Westeros, changed and unholy. The Gods had forsaken me, I thought, until I discovered that I had left Greywater Watch with a pregnant wife, and found two children waiting for me, never knowing their father, both of them clear of any sign of Greyscale. I thought they'd hide from me, from my face… but they embraced me like I was everything to them. That's when I knew the Gods had given me a second chance, thanks to that Red Woman… So many years, and I still can't quite remember her name; only that she _appeared_ beautiful, much like you, My Lady… Yet her gift was still a curse, one I must bear for the rest of my days…."

"That's a sad, yet heartwarming tale, My Lord." Brienne says, catching his attention again, "But what does this have to do with our freedom?"

"Nothing." Howland shrugs and chuckles, "I'm simply amazed to find myself before another Red Priestess again. Forgive me, in my old age, I tend to ramble." His chuckle turns into a harsh coughing. This man is a total mystery to her. Everything she knew about the Reeds and Greywater Watch she'd already recited to them. Now her fate lay in this old man's leathery, scaled hands.

"Lord Howland Reed, I must return to My Lady Sansa at once. She is in Winterfell with little protection."

"Lady Melisandre says you speak the truth, and are loyal to House Stark." Howland Reed says, "My men saw you two fighting in the woods. So the Red Lady here has no reason to defend you, yet she does, which gives me cause to believe it." Howland takes a dagger out from his dirty robes and walks up to Brienne's bonds. He rests its edge along the hempen rope, but stops. Brienne's eyes dart between the knife and Howland's face, observing her morosely. "However, before I do let you go, there's one other question I have… You claim to serve House Stark… Does that include our new King in the North?

Brienne knows her answer here will determine her fate. Jon Snow was the King in the North, but Jon was also a bastard. According to what Melisandre told her before they were captured, the other Lords of the north had all proclaimed their loyalty… but that didn't necessarily mean Howland Reed had yet. After-all, the Reeds and the Crannogmen are a mysterious folk, staying in the shadows instead of fighting on the battlefields. Perhaps telling him, "no" would be a better option, and just sticking with her Lady Sansa… yet that might also be the wrong answer. She has no idea, so she closes her eyes and decides to be honest. "The King is my Lady's brother… Bastard or not, he is the King of the North, and if My Lady wishes it, I would fight and die for him just as I would for any Stark."

"I see…" Howland Reed's expression was impossible to read with Greyscale disfiguring his features. "What if I told you the King of the North was not your Lady's brother? What if I told you he was no true Stark at all?"

Brienne shakes her head, not understanding while Melisandre listens intently. "He's Eddard Stark's son. Like I said, he is not a true born but he still has Stark blood in his veins."

Howland sighs through his nose. "You see, that's simply not true. I was there the day Jon was born into this world. Eddard Stark and I entered the tower of joy after defeating Ser Arthur Dayne. Ned Stark promised his sister, Lyanna, to keep the secret of her son's lineage from King Robert, for he would have the son of Rhaegar Targaryen butchered if he found out. For the first time in my life I watched Ned break his honorable code and promise to lie to the realm, promise to raise Jon as a Stark, and to hide him from the new King… I wonder when Ned might've told Jon about his mother and father… I wonder if Jon knows and is hiding this truth, or if he is ignorant of the truth… either way, My Lady, there's three things I know for a certainty… Three things I live by, and my men live by: The first, is that winter comes for us all, and we must be ready. The second, is that I must protect the North from the South, whatever the cost. And thirdly… Never trust a Targaryen." Howland Reed's voice plummets with thick anger.

"Jon Snow is a Targaryen? So what if he is? What does it matter? You expect me to believe this madness?" Brienne asks angrily.

"If you wish to live, yes." Howland Reed says, "You serve Lady Sansa Stark, yet she's been married to two traitors to the North, Lannister and Bolton. How can I trust a Stark that would betray her own family for power?"

"Lady Sansa never married out of willingness or love. She was bought and sold for political gains from people in power, nothing more! I swear it, Lord Reed, by the old gods and the new…"

"There is only one true God, Lady Brienne. The Lord of Light, who comes for us all." Howland removes the blade from her bindings, leaving her trapped in the noose. "The Starks are dead, but I live on. Sansa is a Lannister whore, Jon is a Targaryen, and Ironborn threaten to invade my lands. This is quite a time to be living in at my age." Howland sighs, almost sounding like he regrets his decision.

"My Lord, you make a grave mistake! Lady Sansa is not the woman you've heard rumors about out here in your little swamp! She's a fair, noble woman with honor and dignity! Please, My Lord! Hear my words!" Brienne cries desperately tugging at her ropes but Howland sweeps past her and returns attention to The Red Woman.

"What about you, My Lady?" Howland asks her, "Do you proclaim yourself loyal to the King in the North as well?"

"The King exiled me from the north for crimes I committed long ago." Melisandre says coldly, "If today is the day I die then so be it. I've lived long and hard years and to be done with it all would be a warm relief. However, you know about the powers I possess. You've seen them for yourself. If you claim to believe in the Lord of Light, let me help you, My Lord."

"Indeed." Howland considers her, "I can think of a few uses I could have for you. Would you swear to serve me?"

"I will, here and now."

"Don't believe her!" Brienne roars, "She is a liar and a murderer! She'll use you and leave you for dead when you're no longer important to her! She's a witch, and deserves to be hanged!"

"That's quite something to say about someone who just defended _your_ honor." Howland replies, casting her a dark look. "Lady Brienne, your honor diminishes with every word you speak. Loyalty to House Stark, I'm sure. The House Stark I know is long dead. The King in the North is no true King nor Stark. As for you, I simply can't decide. For now, I think, instead of execution I shall keep you in our pits. You may prove useful in the future."

"What could possess you to act this way!?" Brienne shouts down at him, "You are Ned Stark's friend yet you would betray his children so easily?!"

"Ned Stark died before his children could grow and learn from him. Sansa was raised by lions, Arya is missing or dead, and Robb Stark got himself butchered like a pig. The only sons of Stark I could believe in I sent my children to serve and protect. Yet not long after I bade my children farewell word came to me that Bran Stark and his younger brother were both burned and hung by the turncloak, Theon Greyjoy. I expected my children to return, yet they did not. No doubt they were slaughtered as well… All in the name of Stark."

Brienne watches as Howland Reed beckons for his men to come and take her away. Brienne fights without the use of her hands or feet, trying to escape, but there are too many of them. Between their bustling arms, she sees Howland cut Melisandre's bonds and release her from the noose. Brienne snarls, whipping her head back and smashing it into the face of a Crannogman. She receives several beatings for it, the fiercest being a sharp knee-thrust to her gut, before she is tugged along by the rope around her neck. "Howland Reed you will regret this!" She shouts before they gag her, blind her, and drag her through the mud. Suddenly where there was once earth beneath her feet, there is air. She falls through the darkness landing bound, gagged, and blind in a hole of wet slime and muck. She growls, hating herself for being stuck like this, trying to ignore their amused whispers overhead.

Brienne rolls over, tugging the cloth around her eyes down with friction against the floor so that she can at least see where they'd tossed her. Indeed, the pit was aptly named. She has about six feet of wiggle room down here, and the light from above is clouded by fog making it awfully dark. Brienne crawls to the dirt and moss-covered wall that enclosed her and leans against it, shivering…

Up above, Howland Reed's guttural voice carries over the wind, speaking adamantly with The Red Woman, but Brienne can't make it out. With a heavy grunt, she stands, balancing on feet that are tied together and in mud that threatens to make her slip. She is tall but not quite tall enough to grab the top. _I am truly trapped down here._

Somewhere close Brienne hears the howling of a wolf, and she thinks about her Lady Sansa. She failed her mission and now she failed to return home. _Sansa will assume I am dead after a while._ _No one will come look for me…_ Brienne sniffs, glaring down into the mud. After a while Brienne closes her eyes and falls into an uncomfortable slumber while the sound of wolves howling into the sky sings her to sleep.


	19. Jaime II

Jaime

 _This was the same window my son jumped from_ , Jaime thinks, standing under the arch and looking out over King's Landing's sprawling cityscape. In the distance he can spot the rubble of the Sept. The smoke had finally settled and the fires had all been put to rest, yet the scar on the city will remain for a long time, he thinks. _But not as long as the scar on my heart._

Down below, mounted along spikes around the Red Keep, Cersei's wish was put into action. The heads of every person Jaime had executed, covered in thick black tar, stared lifelessly down at the citizens of the capital with open eyes from atop the Keep's walls. From up here, Jaime can't tell which one was the boy he killed, nor the mother who had feinted at the sight of her son being murdered, and was put to death with the sword while she was unconscious… No, from up here they are all just black smudges in the distance…

The creaking of the door opening behind him brings Jaime out of his trance. He turns, hearing heavy footfalls, and sees Bronn standing in the foyer. As the sellsword fancies, he wears his elegant, embroidered tunic and cape, leather boots that reach up to his knees, and has a weathered sword hanging at his side. One look and Jaime can tell Bronn had heard what happened. "Normally, I wouldn't ask this. I don't care to get into feelings and whatnot. But after what you just did I feel like I need to ask…"

"You'll have your money, Bronn." Jaime mutters absently, glaring back out the window.

"I was gonna ask if you were alright, you twat."

"I'm sorry," Jaime grimaces, giving Bronn an apologetic look. "Clearly I'm not alright."

"Aye." Bronn swaggers over to where a pitcher of wine sat full and waiting. "Want to talk about it?"

"Not really." Jaime says, sitting down at the table and resting his golden hand upon its surface.

"Fine with me." Bronn says, taking the wine and two cups over to the table and setting one down for each of them. "Men don't talk about their feelings. Men get drunk. Your brother was good at that."

"Don't speak to me about Tyrion." Jaime says, narrowing his eyes.

"Still mad about him killing your Dad?"

"Of course I am!" Jaime shouts, "My brother killed my father, all three of my children are dead, and my sister is now known as The Mad Queen!"

"You got a fucked up family, no one is denying that." Bronn says with raised eyebrows, gulping down his drink while casting an eye at the door to make sure no one was out there spying.

"The Cersei I know would never condone the murder of an innocent child." Jaime says flatly, "She's not the woman I fell in love with."

"Well one might call that karma for falling in love with your sister, mate." Bronn says, "Though I must say I appreciate you finally admitting it. Feels like we're friends now. Just don't go falling in love with me."

"Very funny. I'm being serious."

"Let me ask you something, then." Bronn says, straightening up in his seat, "Why do you love her?"

Jaime stares at Bronn, not knowing how to answer that. He used to come up with hundreds of reasons why he loved his sister… Yet sitting her now, after everything she's made him do… "I've always loved her. She's the only woman I've ever been with."

"Well there's your fucking problem right there." Bronn says with a smirk, "You need to explore, mate. Look around for other women. There's a whole realm of women who would give anything to be with you. Like that one, the gigantic _beast_ of a woman. She'd give you a night you'd never forget, I can tell with a lass like that."

"Who, Brienne?!" Jaime seethes, shaking his head. "No, Brienne is a… a very dear friend and… Look, this is beside the point."

"No, this is the point." Bronn leans in, " _Dear friend,_ my arse! You need to fuck another woman or you're never going to get over your sister, Jaime. You don't sound like you want to love her anymore, or am I wrong?"

"I don't… I don't know what I want." Jaime sighs miserably, running his real hand over his weary face. "I can't disobey her command. She is the Queen now."

"Aye. She is the queen. So what?" Bronn asks pointedly, taking another swig. "You're still a man with balls and a cock like everyone else. Your cunt of a sister, if you don't mind me saying, has you bent over so far you can't even see them—but they're there, my friend."

"I can't disobey her, she will have my head." Jaime tells him, shifting uncomfortably in his chair. "I tried to stop her, you know… I didn't even know what I was doing until it was already too late. Suddenly I was just standing there… holding my sword up… trying to prevent her from murdering an innocent child…"

"Then she made you do the deed yourself, eh…" Even Bronn appears disturbed to hear this. "If you'd continued resisting you and I wouldn't be speaking here right now. I'd likely be dead right along with you. Chances are you're the only person keeping me alive at this point. Best get out of King's Landing while I still can, I think. As for you, though… what will you do?"

Jaime stares at his untouched cup of wine, the question lingering in his mind while Bronn continues to get drunk at his side.


	20. Tyrion I

Tyrion

Drogon is a majesty to behold, a legend in the making. The largest of the dragons, Drogon swoops down at the sight of his mother on the prow of _The Red Wind_ , summoning him with an undemanding raised hand. Tyrion hides behind Daenerys, unprepared for the way the entire ship rocks as Drogon lands. The dragon releases a bellowing roar, blowing back his hair, the stench from the dragon's breath filling Tyrion's nostrils. Daenerys steps up to the beast with trust and grace, running her hand along his smooth scales. She looks to Tyrion then and says, "Come."

Tyrion steps forward, watching as Drogon observes him. He was so big his head alone could easily crush him if he willed it. Tyrion meekly bows his head in respect, hoping Varys wasn't watching this. The dragon rears its long neck back, tilting its head and growling suspiciously at the dwarf. "Hello Drogon! Pleased to finally meet you!" Tyrion shouts over the grumbling dragon and the lapping waves against their ship.

The Dragon's growling only intensifies. Tyrion gives Dany a worried look. The other two liked him because he'd freed them, but Drogon might see no reason to trust him…

"It's ok." She says, smiling, "He won't hurt you. Not while I'm here. Come, put your hand on him. Let him know you're safe."

 _I would rather risk poking my sister with a sharp stick while she's getting her beauty sleep._ Yet Tyrion found himself walking toward the humongous creature, wary of the way its eyes follow his every move. When he is beside Dany he reaches up and feels Drogon's warm scales. "You are magnificent." He whispers, and Dany beams at them.

"He'll know you are safe now."

"If not, then at least I'll make a tasty snack. My blood stream is pumping with wine. I wonder if a dragon can get as drunk as a dwarf." Tyrion says as Drogon lifts his head out of reach, his growling simmering but not entirely waning. Daenerys lowers her hand as well and the dragon takes off, nearly sinking the front end of _The Red Wind_ as his wings give flight. Tyrion hollers with surprise, grabbing the railing and Dany by her wrist to keep balanced. Dany laughs heartily, watching her baby soar over the fleet of ships and howl down at them all with pride.


	21. Theon I

Theon

Theon Greyjoy and his sister Yara step off from their Ironborn flagship and board _The Red Wind_ , Yara leading the way while Theon follows behind her. Once inside the cabin, they find Dany sitting behind her round table, with both Tyrion Lannister and Missandei at her side. "Ah, greetings." Says the dwarf. Both Yara and Theon bow low, their arms across their chests in salute.

 _Keep quiet, Reek, or the Hounds will hear you._

"How fares my ships?" Dany asks them.

Theon looks to his sister, who answers, "There are no troubles, Your Grace. The horizon is clear. When other ships see us coming they flee but none can race an Ironborn in open water. Most are shipping vessels, and we pay them for their silence. With a force this size it might be impossible to arrive at King's Landing unnoticed, however."

"That's to be expected." Tyrion says, "We can't control how word spreads."

 _I bet word has spread about your lost pecker to all the people in this room, Reek._

"Have we crossed paths with any enemy scouting ships?" Dany asks.

"Three so far, Your Grace." Yara smirks self-righteously, "None of them could sail away from my ships, nor do they know the sea like an Ironborn does. We did what you asks. Every scout aboard those ships are swimming with the Drowned God now."

"Yara Greyjoy, you and your people are more familiar with the sea than any of us. I am grateful for your help." Dany says with a smile.

"We are here to serve at your command, Your Grace." Yara says, smiling as well, though perhaps a little more slyly.

"Tell me, what are the chances of your uncle Euron blocking our way before we arrive?" Dany asks.

"Our uncle has little ships and even less resources to build more. A year or two, I think, unless he invades The Neck and takes trees from the Crannogmen there. Most Ironborn know better than to take part in the Frog-Eater's affairs, but Uncle Euron is mad." Yara shrugs, "It's not Euron's ships that truly concern me, Your Grace. The fight with Euron will take place on Westeros. It's his brother, Victarion, I am worried about now. We've had word from our own scouts that say a fleet under the sigil of the Kraken has taken Volantis and burned it to the ground."

"Victarion?" Tyrion raises an eyebrow, "I remember hearing about him from my brother once..."

"Victarion left the iron islands many years ago when he, Euron, and our father had a falling out. Euron was exiled, Victarion explored the world to find riches, and father became King. No word of Victarion has been heard of in so long he was almost not a concern… But if I know my uncles, we should be concerned. Victarion wasn't as smart as Euron, never could defeat him in an argument, but he was by far the bigger and stronger of the two. Victarion's fleet was only fifteen strong when they left ten years ago. Now he is known to have two hundred, and has conquered the seas north of Essos. Euron is the threat we know isn't close, Your Grace. Victarion is the threat that could hit us from behind when we're least expecting it. I wouldn't put it past the both of them to try and work together to take us down. I suggest the Ironborn guard the rear of our fleet. We will recognize his ships faster than any other."

"And if he were to attack from the north, or south, or west?" Tyrion asks.

"Volantis is behind us, therefor an attack from my uncle would come from behind us." Yara insists.

"They could have many more ships in their fleet than you've heard from passerby scouts." Tyrion suggests. "For all we know he could have us surrounded tomorrow."

"Your uncle had fifteen ships when you last saw him?" Dany asks, and Yara nods. "We have nearly a thousand. Whether or not his fleet has a hundred, two hundred, or even five hundred, it doesn't matter. If either of your uncles are foolish enough to attack us by sea, they will learn their mistake through fire and blood."

"A battle at sea could be disastrous for us." Tyrion tells his Queen with a grimace, "Many lives are lost when a single ship goes down. Best to try and avoid such collateral damage. We shall keep the Ironborn ships on our borders, looking out for these uncles of theirs… Though tell me, what reason would Victarion have for siding with Euron when the both of them fought so many years ago?"

"They both lust after power, women, and gold." Yara shrugs, "They could just as easily be competing with one another, to see which one gets the Dragon Queen first in their bed."

"I'm afraid your uncles will be very disappointed when they learn this Queen will not submit so easily." Dany says, "Yara Greyjoy, I thank you for your council. Command the Ironborn to maneuver their ships to surround our rear to the east and to keep watch for any signs of your uncles approaching. If they are fool enough to come after me I will give them a sight to behold."

"My pleasure, Your Grace." Yara bows again, but as she turns Dany calls out to her.

"See me tonight, in my cabin. I have… private matters I wish to discuss with you."

Theon eyes his sister's smirk and feels a familiar pain… _Is it envy?_ Yara nods and leaves them with a swagger. Theon blinks and begins to go after her when Tyrion says, "Why do you follow your sister so obediently without trying to take command for yourself, Theon Greyjoy? Last I checked you are the rightful heir to Balon's throne. So why Yara, if you don't mind me asking?"

"I told you, I'm not fit to rule."

 _Not fit to fuck either, Reek._

"Well that's not really an answer to my question." Tyrion says, raising a curious eyebrow and taking a sip from his goblet of wine. "What changed? Last I heard you had taken Winterfell for yourself, killed two Stark boys, and betrayed the King of the North? I can't be the only one curious as to how a man like that becomes his sister's yes-man."

Tears begin to sting Theon's eyes. He glares down at his feet, trying to muster up the courage to remember… How can he not? It was all so fresh in his mind. The torture Ramsay enforced was his life back then. Now here he was, a soldier in one of the largest armies ever seen, about to assault the capital of Westeros.

Daenerys can tell something is wrong. "Speak, Theon. It's alright. Your past crimes have no bearing on your position with me yet."

"Well…" Theon stammers, trying to shut out the voices. "Well, you see… I was captured by… by the Boltons."

"The Boltons…" A look of understanding sweeps across the dwarf's face, "I see."

"Who are the Boltons?" Dany asks her Hand.

"A truly terrifying House. Their flayed man sigil was no metaphor for their cruel and sadistic habits. I can only imagine what torments they put him through." Tyrion says, grimacing sadly and feeling pity for the man which was indeed quite odd considering his crimes.

"Aye. They tortured me." Theon says, trembling on the spot, "Mutilated me in ways I can't describe. I was nothing to them. But I escaped. And here I am." Theon's voice grows stronger as he speaks, and he stands straighter, looking now at his Queen. "I am Theon Greyjoy, and I swear to you, My Queen, I will never betray you as I once betrayed Robb Stark. I am a better man now, and given a chance I will prove it to you."

"You've proven enough already. I pardon you, Theon Greyjoy, for all your crimes." Dany says, standing before him with a merciful smile. "Fight for me, and you will have your House back. Fight for me and I will give you your honor back. Fight for me, and never look back on the man you once were. I can be merciful, and forgiving… but cross me and I will not share with you either of those things. I have faith in you. Do not disappoint me."

"Never, My Queen!" Theon shouts, giving her a proud salute. A feeling of weightlessness was taking over him. Suddenly he feels empowered, like he can do anything. Staring at the white haired beauty and her radiant smile fills him with the kind of hope Theon thought he could never trust in again.

 _What is dead may never die… Reek._


	22. Victarion II

Victarion

Thunder booms in the night sky over _The Iron Victory_. Behind them lies the distant ruins that once belonged to Volantis. A smog of black smoke now paints the sky an ugly, black. Victarion cares not to look back at his own devastation, preferring to gaze ahead where cylinders of wind spiral down like spears from the skies and crash into the water. Ratfly, Jharax, and Hulbert are hooting and waving their swords at the twisters, daring them to come closer. Strong Belwas only watches the storm with a disinterested expression. High Priestess Kinvara was watching as well from the very front of the Iron Victory's bow, the wet spray of the sea rising up to meet her but then dissolving before it could wet her skin.

"Our ships have braved worse than this. Have no fear, My Lady." Victarion taunts as he approaches her, amused with himself. "Perhaps we'll find the wreckage of Daenerys and her dragons lying dead in the water? What would I make of your Fire God then?"

"I have no doubt these storms will not trouble us." Kinvara says, "We have still a long way to go before we catch up to them."

"How do you know all of this? Have you seen _everything_ in the flames?" Victarion asks, daring to believe.

"Some. Not everything." Kinvara casts him a mysterious, yet friendly smile. If not for her promise of ruling The Seven Kingdoms he would've raped her by now, yet he also feels a strange respect for this woman. She had shown him true magic, and ever since then she navigated their path to the Mother of Dragons at his whim. When asks how she knows where to travel, she explains that the Lord of Light guides her way. Victarion suspects more than once that this is was all a trick, that he is being played. Whenever he has one of these suspicions, The Red Woman shows him the flames again, and Victarion forgets all about them.

"Captain Victarion!" Shouts Ratfly with excitement, pointing northward from the crow's nest. "There's a ship ahead!"

"How many?!" Bellows Victarion abruptly, steeling himself away from the bow.

Ratfly is peering through a telescope to their north near the continent. "Just one, no sigil I recognize, just a white sail." Ratfly grins, revealing his golden teeth. "One sailor from the looks of it. An old man."

"What of it?" Victarion asks, "A single sailor doesn't matter to me. If he comes near shoot him with a bolt and grab his things, 'might have some nice ale. We don't need another beggar weighing us down." Victarion tells Ratfly with a wave of his hand.

"That will be a mistake." The Red Woman says, still looking out ahead at the twisting wind columns stabbing the raging sea to the west.

Victarion glares at her, impatience tickling his brow. "What do you mean, sorceress? Speak up or I'll have you whipped."

"That man has no idea who you are yet. Only that you have many large ships and that he needs to get to Westeros. When he sees the kraken carved into the bow of your ship he will recognize it and realize who you really are. You must sail out and capture him before he does this."

 _This woman tries my patience every chance she gets_. "I gave you charge of navigating my fleet because you promised to lead me to Daenerys, not some random beggar on a fishing ship."

"That man is the key we need in order to take Daenerys and The Seven Kingdoms."

"You speak to me in riddles, woman. How is that random stranger out in a boat the key?"

"You will find out once you speak with him." She smoothly replies.

Victarion considers her words and once again finds himself believing her. "If this turns out to be folly you know what will happen to you, right? We're miles from shore now and I just spotted a shark looking for prey."

"Trust me, Victarion. I will never lie to you." She never looks at him though, keeping her starry-eyed gaze on the storm; and this infuriates him. Victarion commands his men to act like they're offering the sailor safe passage to Westeros and bring him aboard.

When they do, Victarion Greyjoy immediately regrets his decision and can see why no other ships had granted this man passage. He is about as old as Victarion, though much thinner and worse for wear. His shirt is gone, revealing muscles and blonde hair; as well as the very thing Victarion tries to avoid whenever he sailed past the ruins of Valyria. From the tips of his fingers in the sailor's left hand all the way up to his neck-line is Greyscale, and it was beginning to claw its way down his chest as well. Fissures of cracked, disturbed skin peel away at the entirety of his left arm, his fingers hanging limply without use at his side. Victarion turns to Kinvara in outrage and spits, "You let me bring aboard this infested swine? I should have you thrown overboard for this treachery."

"What is this?" Whispers the man hoarsely, confused and weary. He looks hungry as well, ready to collapse.

"Jorah Mormont," Kinvara confidently says to the man, as though speaking with an old friend, "Are you not?"

"I am. Why?"

"Tell these men who you serve."

A dusky look spreads across his face. "I serve the one true Queen of Westeros… Daenerys Targaryen. I came here looking for safe passage to—"

"Oldtown?" Kinvara interrupts with a smile, "I know, Jorah the Andal. I know all about you. Victarion Greyjoy is in need of a man such as you."

Jorah glares at her, then at Victarion, his narrow, blue eyes searching for understanding, "What's the meaning of this? I recognized your sails, I know who you are, Victarion Greyjoy. Why did you bring me here?"

"My Lady here tells me you are the key to winning the Dragon's heart." Victarion says, "Yet all I see is a man who can never swing a sword properly again, and risks infecting us all with madness."

"I can still kill you and half your men before you'd get me, Greyjoy." Jorah growls defiantly.

"There will be no need for killings, good men." Lady Kinvara says and she approaches Jorah unafraid. "The Lord of Light can heal his affliction now before it drives him to insanity and spreads its disease."

Jorah shakes his head. "I don't believe you."

"You don't need to believe, my friend. You only need to relax." Kinvara takes his infected hand in her own and he recoils at first. "Do not be afraid. You cannot harm me, Jorah." He feels warmth at her touch. The pain that is there numbs, but doesn't go away. "I will need to perform the ritual inside, preferably in a bedroom; with your consent of course, Victarion?" She glances over her shoulder at the Captain, who watches in stunned silence.

For the third time, Victarion decides to trust her. Ratfly and Hulbert pin Jorah to the floor before he can draw his sword. They discard his weapons and tie him up. "Let me go!" Spit flies from his mouth as he roars, "Let me go! Unhand me! You fools! You'll all catch Greyscale!"

Down below _The Iron Victory_ , Jorah Mormont is strapped to a bed, his clothes torn away to reveal his naked legs and groin. Kinvara eyes him with a flirtatious smile, slowly making her way around the bedding and climbing on top of him. Victarion stands solemnly in the corner, his arms crossed over his barreled chest. He watches, entranced, as Kinvara removes her red dress and throws it aside. Her full, round breasts are beautiful and Victarion feels an urge to reach out and take them for himself, yet he resists… The desire to witness more magic outweighed the desires of his cock.

Jorah the Andal fights against the ropes around his wrists and ankles, tugging desperately but to no avail. The Red Woman leans in and brushes her dark nipples along his hairy chest, locking her lips with his, ignorant of his protests. "You can't…No… Stop this…" He mutters in between breaths as she straddles his waist. "I don't want this. Please."

"I know, Jorah. I know. You love Daenerys. She is your one true love and I suspect maybe she might even love you someday." She takes his unwilling erection and slides it with ease inside of her, "Today is not that day, Jorah. Today you are mine." She leans in close and whispers softly in his ear so no one else but him can hear, " _You will thank me for this_."


	23. Jorah I

Jorah

Never in his entire life has Jorah hated himself more than he did right now. This woman, as beautiful as she is, was no better than a monster—raping him, pinning him to the bed with rope, stuffing a gag in his mouth to silence his protests while she performs her ritual. The witch then turns and beckons for Victarion to bring her something. Jorah does his best to ignore her warm, pulsating depths—but his body reacts against his will. It has been a long time since he's been with a woman, so in mere minutes he is already jerking with spasms that tell Kinvara she successfully completed her duty… Jorah dares to hope she will get off him then, but he is wrong. She does not get off. She just goes on, back and forth, moaning between her foreign whispers, her hands washing his body with a strange, charcoal smelling black powder he's never seen before. She covers his grey-scaled arm with it, unafraid of the disease that threatens to infect her. While she does this she whispers in Valyrian under her breath, her chest rising and falling with every thrust. Jorah's heart hammers painfully. He watches as all of the cracks and fissures that wove their way up his arm begin to glow in a fiery red light. He screams in agony, writhing from the torture, pleading with tear-stricken eyes for her to stop. Kinvara's chant rises to a higher pitch, moans of pleasure weave their way in and out of her words. His whole arm trembles and he thinks it might explode from the pressure mounting beneath his skin. His flesh, rotten as it already is, turns a nasty shade of black while all his hairs singe off. The cracks cool and hiss with a simmering glimmer of red as though lava ran through his veins. Jorah can only watch helplessly as his arm is mutated before his eyes.

When she is done Jorah feels as though his whole body has been drained of all its energy. His head weighs a million tons and drowsiness is beginning to take over. Kinvara climbs down, dressing gracefully in her red gown, not an ounce of shame on her face. Jorah hates her. Had he'd known what awaited him he never would've approached the ships he'd seen off the coast… Yet he'd been desperate to find a cure and the only place he could think to look was in Oldtown where all of the Maesters are bound to have some knowledge of the infection. By the time he saw the Kraken Sigil on their flags, smallboats were already making their way to him, bulging with roaring pirates. _What would Daenerys think if she knew of this?_

"What magic is this?!" Victarion growls from his dark corner, striding up to Jorah's bedside for a closer look at his blackened arm. "His arm… I've never seen this before in my life…"

"The disease has been cleansed. The infection will no longer spread. Thankfully only his arm was sacrificed to the Lord of Light. It will be useless to him now, but better a cripple than dead." Kinvara tells him.

"What's to stop me from killing him right now?"

"You need him, I told you this." Kinvara says sternly, "He is your prisoner. Use him and the Mother of Dragons will be forced to accept your proposal."

"And if you're wrong and she decides to burn us all like her father would?" Victarion asks, his hand gripping the handle of his sword.

"I would die as well and I have no plans on dying. Trust in me."

Perhaps it is the way she speaks down to him or the look in her eyes, but Jorah personally thinks she was casting a spell on the huge, battle-weathered Captain. Victarion grunts and leaves the room. Jorah can't believe it. _Victarion is dumber than he looks. Much dumber. To leave us alone like this…_ On the verge of passing out, Jorah asks in a dry, throaty voice, "What did you do to me?"

"The Lord of Light showed me a vision of you, Jorah Mormont. I guided Victarion here where I could find you. I healed your arm, because the Lord has great plans for you yet. You will be a champion for the Dragon Queen in the wars to come. People will fear your name, and your power. For now we must wait and fool the Greyjoy Captain until the time is right. Have no fear, I lied to Victarion. Your arm is not ruined… Have faith in the Red God, for he has given you a great gift that will give you everything you've ever longed for—another chance at love."


	24. Daenerys II

Daenerys

Dany's chambers are wide and enamored in crimson cloth. The sigil of House Targaryen hangs from the walls and through her window, a vast expanse that reveals the ocean. Dany likes to watch the sea pass her by. Sometimes she would see a shark or a whale swimming along minding its own business, unconcerned with the enormous fleet above. On her down time Dany loves it down here. No one but Missandei had been invited inside so far. Dany looks to her door, wondering where her handmaiden was now. She is so used to her being at her side every day it feels lonely without her.

When the doors to her chambers open and Yara Greyjoy enters, Daenerys greets her with a warm smile, "You came."

"I would never miss a private audience with my Queen." Yara smirks, approaching her with the same swagger she always displays that Dany finds so endearing. She reminds her of Daario, they have the same arrogant look and posture, the same lustful twinkle in their eye, and they both give her a fluttering in her heart she cannot explain. Tyrion warned her after Dany had given Yara permission to come by her room, telling her she had already gone through this with Daario and to be careful not to make Yara her mistress. Dany had found his concern amusing, and promised she would not make the same mistake twice… Yet sitting here watching the young Greyjoy woman, Dany can't help but reflect on her lover in Meereen.

"Have you ever been with a woman before?" Yara asks.

"Once. But it wasn't really…" Dany blushes, "She taught me how to pleasure a man a long time ago."

"An important skill, no doubt. Honestly I've always enjoyed women better. I could show you my skills, if you'd like." _Just like Daario_. Yara's seductive smile is attractive, and although Dany is hesitant, she knew she must remain Queenly, even when making love.

Daenerys sits down on her bed and watches Yara expectantly. "Remove your clothes."

Yara obeys her queen, and as the leather falls to the floor and the ship rocks underneath them, Dany feels a stirring inside of her. Yara's body is beautiful, voluptuous, and it arouses her in ways men never have. She lays back on her bed and allows the Greyjoy follow, climbing over her legs and pulling back the curtains of her white gown. "Let me show you how I like to begin." Yara grins, kissing her stomach and traveling southward. Dany closes her eyes and enters a world of ecstasy. Her own moans sound far away. Yara's tongue plays with her at first, then enters her slowly, tasting every inch, crawling up her moist depths. It is shortly joined by two rough fingers pumping in and out.

Dany's hands found their way down to Yara's hair, her thighs clamp tightly around the Greyjoy's ears, and she thrusts her pelvis to her rhythm. Daenerys Targaryen rocks back and forth on the sheets of her enormous bed, envisioning Daario Naharis thrusting his cock inside of her, grunting deeply as he always had, and Dany knows she is already getting close. Then she sees Khal Drogo, lumbering over Daario with his rippling muscles… Dany's imagination goes wild, loving the way Yara's fingers fondle her breasts. Then someone else joins her imaginary threesome, naked and obscured in scars and blood, a roaring fire blazing behind him. Dany cradles Jorah Mormont's face in one hand while the other slides down between his legs… Seconds later and Dany is groaning in rapture, her fingers scraping Yara's scalp. "That was quick." Yara mumbles, wiping her mouth off with her wrist.

"I did not command you to stop." Dany says, out of breath. Yara coyly grins and obeys.


	25. Sam II

Sam

If ever in Sam's life there was a task more troublesome than this, he can't name it. Braving the north, fighting a white walker, taking care of a baby—all of it was easy compared to _this_. Sam tried everything from lighting the glass candle with fire to making a heartfelt plea; nothing worked. The candle is not really a candle at all. It has a small black wick atop a long, round stick that would normally melt once lit. Even the base at the bottom is carefully forged dragonglass.

The maesters brought him food as Archie promised, with a pitcher of water as well. Sam eats quickly, determined not to leave until he solves this riddle. He imagines Jon's disappointment if he hears that Sam failed the first test they gave him and it brings him close to the verge of despair. "Come on you stupid little piece of—ignite! _Ignite_!" He shouts desperately, holding a torch over the glass. No matter how long he holds it, the candle remains just as unsinged, black, and glistening as before. After endless hours of failed attempts and praying to every God he knew of, Sam was running out of ideas. _How could this happen?! How could I make it this far only to be toppled by a damn candle?!_

After about sixteen straight hours of attempts he falls asleep…

When he wakes curled up on the stone floor, Archmaester Archybald is standing over him, a wide grin under his mustache. "Good morning, Sam."

He jerks to his feet with a grunt, "I'm sorry, Archmaester Archybald, I didn't know I was…" He frowns, remembering all of his failed attempts. Heart plummeting, Sam asks, "Is my time up?"

"Afraid so. Tell me, Sam, what did you learn?" The Archmaester asks curiously, prodding the candle with his bony index finger.

"I failed. I didn't learn anything, Archmaester."

"It's Archie, Sam." The old man reminds him with a sly smirk. "I didn't ask if you succeeded, it's clear you did not. I asks what you learned."

Sam pauses, not knowing if he'd learned anything. "Well… I learned that I'm completely hopeless and Jon sent the wrong man for the job, though I suppose I should've known that."

"Wrong." Suddenly Archie slaps him, and Sam nearly tumbles right into the glass candle. "You can expect more of those every time you give me a loathsome answer like that."

"Well I don't know what I bloody learned!" Sam snaps at him, rubbing his sore cheek.

"What do you think it would take to light this candle, Sam?" Archie asks.

"I don't know, I couldn't do it."

"I didn't ask if you succeeded, Hahahaha!" Archie laughs, walking around the table in the center of the room, glaring down at the candle. " _What do you think it takes to light this candle?_ You tried everything in your power, correct? So tell me what you think it takes!"

Sam thinks about it before answering, "Magic?"

The Archmaester chuckles, "So, you do have some voices in that head of yours, good! _Good!_ Hahahaha!"

"But… Archmaester… Magic doesn't exist really."

"You're right about that one, Sam. Magic doesn't, and never has or will, exist in our world. That is the importance of this test. You must accept this fact, or you will never be able to make it as a Maester. Now, I know magic seems a silly concept, but you would not believe how many apprentices come here thinking they're going to change the world and discover how to use it. I myself was one of these apprentices once. I fought myself for a day and night on how to light this infernal candle! But I learned that some things are simply impossible in this world. Science is the only magic we can trust, Sam. Can you accept this?"


	26. Gilly I

Gilly

Little Sam wails loudly, upsetting some of the people staying in the inn. The innkeeper comes to Gilly and informs her she will no longer be welcome here. "I'm sorry but you have no money and we cannot support your child. I have a business to operate, m'lady."

"Please, I have nowhere else to go." Gilly pleads, but the innkeeper regretfully refuses.

So now she stands in the rain, gripping her baby to her bosom and sheltering him from the cold, wet weather under a rooftop banister. The tower where Sam studies at looms over the city of Oldtown, its great fire lighting the way for ships in the sea. Winter was here, but only storms of harsh rain had reached the south of Westeros. With a determined face, Gilly decides enough was enough. She pounds her way through the rain, doing her best to keep Little Sam hidden, down the sloping roads to the tower.

Once inside, Little Sam's cries echo off the walls immediately alerting the administrator behind the desk, his large spectacles making his eyes appear five times their normal size. "It's you." He says, removing the glasses and turning his nose up at her.

"Where is Sam?" She demands, bouncing her baby to try and soothe him but Little Sam only continues to wail. "I need to see him right now!"

"Samwell is with the Archmaester and is very busy, woman." Replies the grumpy administrator with spite. "You are welcome to wait outside for him. I can inform him of your arrival once he is finished."

"You will inform him now or I'll make sure my baby keeps crying in here." Gilly threatens. The administrator grimaces as Little Sam's shrieks continue.

When Sam came down he was no longer wearing his black padded leather. He was garbed in a black robe instead. "Gilly, they told me you threatened the administrator with our baby?" He asks as he goes to her.

"I had to. They wouldn't let me see you." Gilly says, allowing Sam to hold the baby. At once Little Sam stops crying, his eyes glued to Sam's beaming smile. "We were kicked out of the inn. The money you gave us is gone already. I have no place to go, nowhere to eat, nowhere to work!"

"Gilly, I'm sure that's not true. Who wouldn't take this little tyke in, eh?" Sam giggles, letting the baby play with his fingers. "I'm sure if you explained to the innkeep that you can cook and do other kinds of work—"

"I tried working there, but nobody wants to look after a baby so I have to take him with me… People complained about Little Sam every day. They fired me, Sam." Gilly hates to admit it, but she has to convince him… yet Sam stubbornly shakes his head.

"You'll find another job, Gilly. I'm sure of it. Here, I have a little coin left but not much. Take it and find somewhere to eat and stay for the night. I'd go with you but, well, I've been made a Maester." Perhaps Sam expected Gilly to jump and scream with joy, but all Gilly can do is stare at him in disbelief.

"You're a Maester?" She repeats.

"Yeah, I start today. Well, start studying that is. I won't have my first chain for a while but I'm learning all about The White Walkers, like Jon wanted… At least I hope I will anyway. I know I'm asking a lot from you but I have faith that you'll land somewhere and once I've got my chain I'll be out of here. We can go back to Castle Black and be together the way we're supposed to."

"You don't understand what it's like, Sam." Gilly says furiously, "If I'm to find a job you have to take Little Sam."

"What? N-No, they would never let a baby inside." Sam stammers, glancing at the administrator who is hawkishly watching them behind his spectacles. "Bringing a woman inside the tower at all is forbidden, let alone a baby. They say it distracts from knowledge or something like that."

"You're going to let them keep you from your family?" Gilly asks slowly.

"It's not like that, Gilly." Sam insists, reaching out to her but she instead grabs Little Sam and pulls him gently from his arms. "Gilly…"

"You go ahead and be a Maester, Sam. If we haven't starved to death by the time you're out, try to remember us." Gilly mutters, sniffing back tears. She turns away to leave, but Sam grabs her. His forcefulness shocks her, never seeing this side of him before. Before she can resist he's wrapped himself around her from behind, holding them close in his embrace with one hand on Sam Jr's forehead and the other caressing Gilly's neck.

"Gilly, I love you. I'll always love you. Little Sam is everything to me. You both are. But you have to understand, I wouldn't be in here if it wasn't important. Everything I do, I'm doing it for my family." His breath is warm against her ear. She closes her eyes, feeling calm again, but it was a bittersweet thing. As Sam's arms leave her and she looks back at him, she realizes he was crying long before she was.

"I love you too, Samwell Tarly." Gilly says, giving in and hugging him back, their baby in between them giggling joyfully. She kisses his hairy cheek, ignoring the disapproving grunts from the administrator. Sam kisses them both, promising he will be out as soon as he can. She watches as he disappears up the flight of steps, and leaves them alone once more. Gilly looks down at Little Sam's smiling face, still unaware that his Dad wouldn't be around for a while. It breaks Gilly's heart to walk out the door and into the storm, with nowhere to go but everywhere.


	27. Sansa III

Sansa

A candle burns beside an open window while snow cascades inside, blanketing the carpet in white, wet powder under Sansa's bare feet. She is wearing a gown of black, and the cold winter winds have given her a chill, yet she doesn't don the fur coat she made nor does she close her window. Instead she watches as the snowflakes dance past the flickering candle for what feels like hours on end, lost in thought. The door to her room opens and her handmaiden, Larysra, announces Ser Davos. Sansa knows she isn't dressed the way a Lady should be when addressing the King's adviser, but she does not get up to change. Her body feels too tired for all that, and in spite of her envy toward Davos for being the one Jon went to for advice, she can't help but trust the old man. He had shown her kindness and always speaks respectfully to her. "Come in."

"My Lady." Davos greets, bowing his head with a smile. She turns to look at him and nods in return, but without smiling. "Just wanted to come by and wish you a farewell."

"Where are you going?" Sansa asks.

"To give a peace treaty to our Ironborn friends. They've launched a fleet to invade The Neck, and I intend to turn it around and make them see reason." Davos studies her with concern, "Are you not freezing, My Lady?"

"I am. I don't mind." Sansa says somberly, "I didn't know you were leaving."

"Well Jon probably wants to keep it quiet. The other Lords might not appreciate the Greyjoys joining our side."

"I wouldn't know. I missed the council."

"Jon never told you anything about what you missed?"

"He's busy dealing with Wildlings or something." Sansa mutters. "What did I miss, Ser Davos?"

Davos takes in a heavy breath, crosses his hands behind his back, and says, "Your brother wishes to have peace with the south and unite the Kingdoms against our greatest threat. We've sent word to the Queen, asking for her to come here and make peace with the north."

Sansa sits upright, her eyebrows furrowing. "Cersei? You mean Cersei?"

"Why yes, My Lady?"

 _He is doing it again._ _Jon is going too far._ "No. She cannot come here. She would rather see me dead than make peace with us. You have to tell him, Davos! You have to warn Jon not to do this!"

"I'm sorry… I've already sent the raven." Davos even looks apologetic, but Sansa doesn't care. _How can Jon do this to me?_ How could Jon invite the woman who tried to murder her up here to make peace? The woman who made her life a living hell along with Joffrey. _First Littlefinger tries to marry me, and now Cersei.._. Suddenly she remembers Petyr's last words to her and realizes he would be delighted to see her distraught over this news and doubting her half-brother's judgement.

"It's fine." She says dismissively, wheeling back around to face her candle which is beginning to die from the cold, harsh winds blowing through her window.

Davos says, "Jon knows what he's doing. Have faith in him."

"Jon promised to keep me safe," Sansa meekly replies, "It doesn't feel like he's living up to that promise."

"He loves you. You're his sister and he is your brother, half or no, blood is blood. He will keep you safe, I know it."

Sansa wishes she can share in his confidence, but even here, looking down along the snow ridden ramparts of Winterfell, she can't shake the feeling that all of this was leading to something terrible for her. Every time she married it only got worse for her. First there was Joffrey, who Sansa once thought a brave and noble prince before learning the truth about the sadistic little boy. Then came Ramsay, and Sansa never thought she could miss Joffrey before then, but after being raped and beaten every night for months on end, Joffrey's little games seem like child's play now—then again, Ramsay never cut off her father's head. She needs to speak with Jon, to tell him how she feels, try to convince him not to marry her away and play into Cersei's hands with false promises of an alliance… _Jon places too much trust in people he doesn't even know. I know Littlefinger and I know Cersei. He has to listen to me. He just has to._

Davos excuses himself from her room and she bids him farewell. The candle fizzles out and the smoke wisps away in the breeze. Sansa shivers, deciding she's had enough of the blizzard. When she reaches out to pull in the glass shutters she notices a rider out in the distance beyond Winterfell's gates.


	28. Bran III

Bran

The journey home was a treacherously cold one. When the gates of Winterfell open for them and Bran enters the castle he once thought was lost, a swell of nostalgia washes over him. Bundled in furs, Bran is helped off of their horse by Meera and one of the new Stark guardsmen who Bran thinks looks suspiciously like a Wildling in Stark armor. Due to the snows, he does not hear his sister's shouts to him at first. Bran notices a girl running across the courtyard for them with bright, red hair, and his jaw drops. " _Sansa_?"

" _Bran_!" Sansa cries, rushing through the snow in a thin veil of a gown, her skin a pasty white. Tears are streaming down her face. Bran can hardly believe it.

They embrace in a powerful, long hug. Bran weeps with tears of joy, both of them sniffing and crying on one another like they are kids again. _She smells of winter roses,_ Bran thinks. _She smells like home._ When she pulls back, Bran becomes unsupported and had to have Meera's help to remain upright. "Let's get you inside!" Sansa yells over the storm, and the two girls carry Bran into the depths of Winterfell's halls together.

At the high-table where all the Lords sit discussing politics, Jon is the only one not speaking. A great beast of a man in wildling clothes is arguing with another Lord bearing the merman of House Manderly upon his sigil. A small, thin man with a pointed mustache and beard sits beside Jon, observing the quarrel with a smirk. A small girl was joining in the argument as well. The hall booms with their words, Bran is unable to make out a thing any of them are shouting. He has eyes only for Jon who sits with his curly, black hair tied behind his head in a bun wearing the wolf's pelt their father always wore over his shoulders. The King of the North notices them enter and he abruptly jolts from his seat, his mouth agape and his eyes wide open. "Bran?"

The other Lords simmer to silence, watching the scene unfold. Jon Snow slowly walks around the table and his Bannermen, mouth agape. He picks up speed the closer he approaches, refusing to believe his eyes until he can see him up close. When he gets to him, Sansa and Meera release Bran for Jon to catch, and when they collide both brothers cry each other's names with happiness. Bran clings onto him, tears blinding him while Jon asks a hundred questions Bran can barely comprehend at first. When Bran pulls away, Jon asks again, "Are you alright? Are you hurt anywhere? "

"You mean besides my legs?" Bran sniffs cheerfully, "I'm fine, big brother."

Jon runs his hand over his younger brother's face, just to be sure he is real. Bran takes it and pulls it down. "Jon, I have something important I need to tell you… in private."

Jon nods, "Give me a moment, we can spend the rest of the evening catching up, I promise." He winks as he lifts his younger brother up and carries Bran on his shoulders over to the table. "My Lords, my youngest brother has just returned home. I beg your forgiveness but I'm calling an end to our council session today. We will resume on the morrow."

Most of the Lords smile and nod in approval, though Lord Baelish is the last to stand and move out of the Grey Hall, his narrow gaze never leaving Bran's face. Lady Mormont, however, smiles warmly at him as she passes, looking Bran up and down. "My father told me about what happened to your legs and you have my greatest sympathies, Lord Brandon."

"Thank you, Lady…" Bran looks down at Jon, who grins and finishes for him, "Lady Mormont."

Once the four of them are alone they all take a seat, Sansa and Jon leaning in close to Bran on either side of him, jesting about how old he looks now. Bran forgets all about his mission, his reasons for coming back, his experiences beyond The Wall—all of it can wait. Right now, Bran didn't care. Right now, Bran only wants to enjoy the time he can have with two of the people he loves most in the world.


	29. Jon II

Jon

The fire in the hearth is dying by the time Bran was finished telling them about his journey. Meera and Bran take turns describing the events. Jon learns of Jojen Reed and his passing. He learns about the two times he nearly crossed paths with Bran and didn't even realize it; though thinking back on it now it seems obvious in hindsight that those direwolves who helped him were Summer and Shaggy Dog. He learns how they ran into their uncle Benjen, and how their uncle died and came back from the dead, just like Jon. He also learns about the Three-Eyed Raven, and how his… title had somehow passed on to Bran.

"I don't understand, this… Three-Eyed Raven… He sounded like he knew you already before you got there?" Sansa asks.

"He did. Just as we knew where to find him through the visions…" Meera answers, "Well, Jojen's visions anyway. I was never any good at them."

"Visions?"

"Visions of the future, in a way." Bran explains, though he finds it harder to do without coming across as mad. "The Three-Eyed Raven can go back and forth through time like a… a visitor. I've seen the past as though I was standing in it. I learned many things from him… But there's still so much I don't know…" Bran looks at him as though he is about to say something important, something he's been saving until now. It makes Jon uncomfortable.

"What is it?" Jon asks him with an air of uncertainty.

"Jon." Bran sighs, "Our father… and your father, are not the same man. Your mother is Lyanna Stark."

Jon lets the words wash over him. Closing and opening his eyes, he stares at Bran and detects no trace of deceit anywhere on his face. "Aunt Lyanna… is my mother?" He leans back in his chair, closes his eyes, inhales deep, then opens his eyes again. _Next time we see each other, we'll talk about your mother_. Exhale. "You're saying… So then who is my father?"

"Do you remember what happened to Lyanna?" Bran asks him, "She was kidnapped from Robert, taken prisoner in the tower of joy. She was raped to death, according to tales. But this wasn't true. She died giving birth to you, Jon. You are—"

"A Targaryen." Sansa says quietly, as if to herself.

Jon Snow looks from Bran, to Sansa, to Meera, then shakes his head, grinning. "Is this a jest? I don't understand. Bran, how could you possibly know this?"

"I've seen it, Jon. Through the weirwood trees, remember?"

"That's impossible."

"He's not lying to you." Meera says.

"I can't be a Targaryen. There's only one Targaryen in the world now and she's halfway across the world. I don't know what kind of trick you're playing at Bran but it's got to stop."

"Jon." Sansa says, taking his hand in her own. "Maybe we should listen to him…"

"I'd never lie to you, Jon." Bran says, "You're my brother."

"If you're telling me the truth then I'm not your brother, am I?" Jon somehow finds himself standing, looking between his siblings with horror. _My life is a lie. Is this true? If not then Bran is lying to me… But he's not. I can tell. He's not looking down at his feet like he always does when he lies._

"You will always be my big brother, Jon. I don't give a damn what blood you have. You might be a Targaryen but Stark blood still runs through your veins." Bran assures him with a small smile.

"That won't matter if the truth gets out." Jon says, running a hand through his black curls and grimacing down at the table, leaning over it, "All they'll see is the fact that I'm the last of the Targaryens… My Bannermen, the North, all of it will come crashing down if this gets out… I could be cast down, executed even for…"

"Jon, calm down." Sansa insists, gripping his hand even harder. "Look around. You can trust us… If this is true we will keep it to ourselves."

Bran says, "I don't know why but the visions… they showed me this for a reason. Jon, I believe you are important in the war against The White Walkers and your bloodline has to have something to do with that. I don't know what, but I trust the visions. I've seen things I never could have and they've led me here to you. If you want to keep it a secret, fine, but just remember that our father kept this from you for a reason."

 _For a reason…?_

 _Next time we see each other, we'll talk about your mother…_ Ned Stark's last words to him. _What did you want to say, Dad? Could it be about why Rhaegar would take Lyanna as his own?_ Jon's head fills up with questions and no answers while Sansa and Bran anxiously watch him from their seats.

"I was right to feel like I was never a part of this family." Jon says with disdain, remembering all the times he sat in a dark corner watching his happy family enjoy dinner together, "If you're right, my own father lied to me my entire life."

"King Robert would have had you killed if he learned of your true lineage." Bran says.

"Jon," Suddenly Sansa leans in and gives him a hug, "You will always be our family. You will always be a Stark. We don't care about your parents or your blood, you're my _brother_. Okay?"

Jon smiles and thanks her. "I'm sorry, I know I'm overreacting, it's just… I really just can't believe this. How do these visions of yours work, Bran?"

"I touch the weirwood tree and… well, I feel like I warg into it in a way, and the roots take me back and sometimes forward in time, I think. Sometimes I have control, sometimes the visions are in control. And sometimes…" Bran glances down at his arm. Jon frowns, curious about what he is about to reveal next. "Sometimes I make mistakes." Bran admits quietly, remembering Hodor. "The Night's King, he found me and he left his mark on me." Bran tugs back on his sleeve to reveal the blue, claw-like bruises over his wrist. Sansa gasps under her breath as Jon leans inward to personally inspect the bruise. "I don't know how he did it but he _did_ and we were… We _are_ no longer safe… Jon, when I went through The Wall this bruise started to burn like it was on fire and at the same time The Wall cracked."

"What do you mean, it cracked?" Jon frowns. "How big was it? How long? Any damage to Castle Black?"

"No. None, really. Not yet. It's huge, Jon. From the very top all the way to the bottom… I think it was because I crossed through it. I'm sorry, Jon. I wish I could change it but what's done is done… You can't change the past…"

"Bran... Sometimes The Wall gets cracks in it. It's only natural. I'm sure this mark isn't going to be the thing that brings down The Wall, alright?"

"Jon, you don't know. You didn't see. It happened right after I came through!"

"I'll have my Maester examine your arm shortly. Do the rest of the Watch seem worried about this crack?"

"Well, yes, Lord Commander Edd said it couldn't be good… Jon, just listen to me, alright? Remember when I told you about how The White Walkers were eventually able to invade The Three-Eyed Raven's cave, even though it was protected by magic? After The Night King grabbed my wrist, he was able to enter the cave. The Three-Eyed Raven told me he had marked me… that he could find me now."

Jon asks, "Does The Wall still stand?"

"It does…" Bran answers, frowning.

"I will send men to defend it soon, with more provisions. I'll even address it in the next council meeting. But first I must unite all of the realm if we're going to even stand a chance, alright? A crack is not a hole. They still can't make it through, and The Wall has stood for over a thousand years. If your mark brings down The Wall we will be ready for them, but only by making sure we all stand together first." He reaches out and tussles Bran's hair. "Thank you for telling me this. Don't worry, Bran. I won't let The Wall fall for as long as I stand. I'm glad you're back, little brother."


	30. Cersei II

Cersei

"From the new King in the North, Jon Snow… _I have been informed that there is a new Queen in the south. I would be both honored and humbled to have Her Grace come visit us in Winterfell where we can make acquaintance and create an alliance that can unite The Seven Kingdoms for the war against the true threat beyond The Wall. If traveling to the north in the winter does not suit you perhaps we can arrange an agreement by raven? Winter is here, and the long night comes. The Night's King and his army_ …" Qyburn pauses as he reads from the parchment before him, " _His army of the undead have the power to destroy Westeros and bring down every noble house from Winterfell to Dorne_."

"What is this foolishness you've brought to me today, Qyburn?" Cersei asks with an impatient raised eyebrow, leaning backwards into the Iron Throne. "Army of the undead? This King in the North must be mad if he thinks I'd believe such fantasies. Didn't we already have a King in the North not too long ago?"

"He goes on, Your Grace, _to ask once more that you give peace a chance and allow both Stark and Lannister, North and South, to stand together as it should be, and fight back the darkness that comes for us all_." Qyburn lowers the letter and smiles benignly across the stairs at Jaime, who was listening to every word with a look of despair on his face.

"Why the bloody hell has Littlefinger not gotten back to me about this? How is it that I'm only now finding out about this new King of the North?" Cersei glares at her Hand. "I told you to send your little birds north a long time ago. What happened?"

"The Winter has slowed their progress tremendously, I'm afraid, Your Grace." Qyburn says, appearing undaunted by the Queen's dagger-like glare. "I expect to hear word from them soon. For now though, it appears, the Boltons are no longer Wardens of the North. If Jon Snow has retaken Winterfell and has the title King of the North, then he has the support of The North behind him already."

"Perhaps we should take this man's words more seriously, Your Grace." The Queen's brother says sharply, "If they have the power of the North behind them they could be declaring war with us right now, instead they are asking us for help."

"The Starks are dead, Ser Jaime, and don't make me remind you of that fact. This Bastard King has no right to his title. The only Stark alive is Sansa and I would have her head on a spike if Littlefinger wasn't so incompetent." Cersei grimaces, remembering Joffrey's murder and how to this day she still did not know who was responsible. She'd always accused Tyrion, yet in her heart she knows it was Sansa's doing. "The wretched whore has paraded around the north long enough. I think it's time we brought her back home where she belongs. The time for ravens is over."

"You cannot be suggesting we go to war with the north?" Jaime narrows his eyes at her. She hates it when he does this, act superior. _Does he simply not care who sits the throne? Does he not see who wears the crown? Does he willingly forget every night we spend together, every time I make him do whatever I want?_ Jaime goes on, "With the combined forces of the north they could match our strength in numbers, and they know the north better than anyone. We would be marching to our deaths in those snows."

"With the support of House Tarly, Frey, and The Vale we outnumber them easily." Cersei reminds him, "Our combined strength can outmatch any army in the world. That is why I can declare war on Dorne and Highgarden without fear. That is why I am Queen, Ser Jaime."

"Except we would be invading them. Their land. The north has always belonged to them. Not once in a thousand years have the Lannisters marched in the North. Father knew it was a bad idea, and you should too."

"The North belongs to the Crown. It belongs to _me_!" Cersei shouts, her eyes wide with fury, her hands cutting themselves along the Iron Throne's barbs. "I will not have another false King stand before me and act as my equal… They will bend the knee and hand over Sansa Stark or I will burn the North to ashes."

"Your Grace, perhaps your brother is wise to council restraint in this matter." Qyburn pipes in and Jaime is honestly shocked to find the little old man on his side for once.

"Even my Hand agrees with you, Ser Jaime. Good thing the Hand does not wear the Crown or there would be no order." Cersei smirks, though nobody smiles back. She notices the noble audience in the hall has thinned out since her last audience. Not many dare bear witness to The Mad Queen anymore.

"Cersei, allow them the chance to speak with you at the very least and hear them out. If this talk about a bigger threat than we know is true…" Jaime remembers Eddard Stark's words, _Winter is Coming_ , and wonders if this could be what he always meant.

"I will not hear them out and I will certainly not be traveling all the way up to Winterfell only to get stranded in the snow and butchered like cattle." Cersei sneers at Jaime, an eager glean to her menace. "Ser Jaime, you will go in my stead. You will bring with you the entire army of House Lannister and our Bannermen as a declaration of war."

"You really are _mad_ if you think I'm leaving you here with the city unprotected…" Jaime earns several gasps from the crowd. He knows he's crossed a line with that comment but he doesn't care.

"You will do as your Queen commands." Cersei says calmly, her fingers bleeding profusely as the throne's swords pierce her. "Your insolence is getting boring, brother. Do as I command or I will find a man who will. You represent House Lannister, you who was our father's son instead of me. You who inherited a gift for warfare _._ You _will_ obey me or face the consequences… _"_

"I will go, but I will not be bringing an army." Jaime says, turning around and striding away from the throne in anger. He wants to go before she can stop him, but Cersei calls out to her guards. Jaime's good hand is ready, and releases his sword from its sheath before any of them can do the same, turning about-face in a dueling stance, daring all seven Queensguard to come at him with a scowl, including The Mountain.

"Your Grace…" Qyburn pipes in again before anyone can swing their weapon, "I have to agree with your brother. If we send our full force into the north while winter rages they will all surely perish in the snows. We will be more than defenseless if this happens. We'll have no army at all. And a Queen without an army…"

Cersei lifts her nose up at her Hand, considering his words. "They say this winter will last years—perhaps even a decade. I will not allow this King of the North and his vile sister, Sansa, live on for that long and grow stronger. I will not sit by and wait as the North builds its strength until one day it can invade the South again."

"We agree on this, Your Grace." Qyburn smiles, his eyes flickering to Jaime. "I have another solution. No need for armies or war. Send someone in quick and quietly to get the job done."

" _I see.._. My Hand has counseled me wisdom... Jaime Lannister, ride north on your own or with that filthy sellsword of yours if you wish. Return only with both the King of the North and Sansa's heads in your hands."

Cersei knows this time she's done it. The horror that uglied Jaime's expression tells her she's won, and that he knows it too. "No… I will not take Sansa Stark's head just to fulfill your vicious vendetta."

"If you fail in this, I will renounce you of all titles, your name, and declare you an enemy of the crown and a traitor to the realm." Cersei tells him. "Understand?"

" _A traitor to the realm_?" Jaime wishes to say more but keeps his mouth shut, one of the hardest tasks he hates doing, especially when it comes to Cersei. _She takes me for her puppet, her tool. I'm the sword she never got to use in battle… This is as much a death sentence as fighting all Seven Queensguard would be._ He wants to yell, to fight, to cut them all down, take his sister off that throne and run away with her like they once dreamed of doing… "I understand." He says, returning his sword to its resting place along his waist, "When shall I take leave?"

Cersei smiles pleasingly. "Soon. I wish to enjoy you to myself for a few more nights."


	31. Arya III

Arya

King's Landing, the capital of The Seven Kingdoms. _How long has it been since I last stood before these towering walls?_ She can't count it. She only knows that seeing it now fills her with a special sense of dread. This is the world she left behind, a world full of misery and decay and memories…

On the ship home from Braavos, Arya had planned out the route she would take. First she would go to the Twins of House Frey and deal with Lord Walder and his family. Arya decided all of them deserved the Many-Faced God's Gift, and when she arrived there she put on one of the faces she'd stolen from the Hall of Faces, that of a pretty young girl, and she quickly infiltrated their kitchens as a serving wench. It was all so much easier than she anticipated. Every single one of the Freys was a dullard with pie for brains. None of them noticed when Milk of the Poppy went missing from the Maester's stores, and nobody asks questions about the pretty, young lass handing them porridge and bacon to break their fast.

After this, King's Landing was her destination—perhaps her final one. Cersei and The Mountain are her remaining targets, and once they are dead she would finally be free. She debated for the entire boat ride across the narrow sea on whether or not she should return home to Winterfell first. She'd heard Jon Snow was the new Lord Commander at The Wall and that Sansa was married to a Bolton Bastard in Winterfell. She could try and see both of them... but Arya was certain that if she did—if she was to actually come face-to-face with Sansa or Jon… Her mantra, her list—it would disappear and become the least important thing in The Seven Kingdoms to her. Everything she worked for would be for nothing because Arya would never want to leave their sides again. And so, with a heavy heart, Arya closes her eyes and chants her mantra under her breath, reminding herself of her father's execution whenever her sibling's smiling faces haunt her.

She enters the city with the face of the serving girl she used to assassinate Walder Frey, casting friendly smiles at anyone curious enough to give her a glance. There are Gold Cloak guards on duty so she waits until they are busy dealing with beggars asking for coin to slip past. At once she notices the poverty in Flea Bottom has gotten a lot worse. People are starving in the streets, some naked, others only in rags, reaching out to her as she passed and begging for anything she can give. Arya has to ignore them, moving her way down the narrow, winding streets until coming upon the rubble that was once the great Sept of Baelor. _This is where it happened._ The statue of Baelor is no longer there, only his head remains. It stares at her, disembodied amidst the debris.

She hears her father's sword swing down, cutting Eddard Stark's head clean off his neck. She hears the flapping wings of birds taking off from the execution. The roar of the enraged audience buzzes in the back of her mind. She remembers even the smell of Yoren's dirty traveling cloak as the Night's Watchman tried to hide the bloody spectacle from her.

Then she notices the naked woman strung up by a chain. Crows had feasted on her flesh, tearing the skin from her face to reveal the skull beneath. Hanging around her neck is a sign written in blood that reads: **SHAME.**

Arya narrows her eyes while the passing Commonfolk avoid the gruesome spectacle with furtive glances. She seems the only one bold enough to stand and there and stare at the hanging woman.

 _Cersei_ , _The Mad Queen, has already determined her fate._ _For the death of my father, my mother, my brother, and all who suffered under her reign_ … _I will see Cersei with my own face, look The Mad Queen in the eye, and tell her who I am before cutting off her head for the whole world to see._


	32. Podrick II

Podrick

The edge of the forest draws near. He can hear the trotting of horses traveling along the snowy road. Pod scrambles as fast as he can, his hair tangled in a net of spider webs, his cheeks and hands scratched up from thorns, and his clothes dripping with mud. He is starving and thirsty, close to passing out. The cold winter wind makes his wet clothes freeze and cling to his skin, developing rashes on every corner and arch in his body. _Almost there. Almost out of these wretched woods…_

The open road stretches vast in all directions and the ground is covered with snow. Several travelers making way south on horseback dragging a rickety carriage are watching him with queer expressions of suspicion. Podrick runs, out of breath, up to them, waving his arms wildly and shouting, "Stop! Please! I need help!"

The carriage wheels come to a shuttering halt in the snow. The two traveling men, one chubby and the other bony, study him from their horses. "Who're you supposed to be?" Asks the larger man in a deep, gravelly voice.

"I-I'm Podrick Payne. I'm a Squire for Lady Brienne. I need help, she's—"

"Squire for a Lady?" Interrupts the bonier man with a commoner's drawl. "I've seen a lot but never seen any Lady Knight before."

"She is a Knight!" Pod says, frustrated by these two already. He debates whether or not he should risk saying Brienne is Lady Sansa's Swornsword when the whining of another horse riding up on them from the south catches his attention. He sees a giant of a man in a black cloak and leathers, with long, brown hair hanging in rags around his face. Pod blinks, recognizing the man but taking a moment to realize it is Sandor Clegane grimacing down at him.

"Seven Hells, Pod." Growls The Hound. "Why is it I can't seem to escape you no matter how far north I travel? What have you gotten yourself into now?"

"Clegane!" Pod gasps, recalling the last time he saw the man and how terrible that turned out. "I thought you…"

"Died? _Hmph_. Might as well have. Nothing really to live for now." The Hound narrows his eyes and looks on ahead to the north, a strange clairvoyance to him Podrick had never seen in the man before. "Tell me. Where's Brienne of fucking Tarth? Aren't you her errand boy?"

"I'm her Squire."

"Same thing."

 _It's probably a lost cause, but…_ "Brienne's been captured by the Crannogmen… I need help getting her back, Clegane. Please, can you help me?"

The Hound throws him a disbelieving stare. "Why the fuck were you so close to the Frog-Eaters then? Everyone knows not to go through that swamp. There's a perfectly good road right here."

"We were taking a boat up from the Riverlands… Brienne thought it quicker and safer to stay off the roads for a while."

"She was wrong. You don't seriously expect me to ride in there and do something about it?"

"Well… Yes, actually. I was hoping so. Look, I know you probably aren't fond of her after what happened…"

"That's the understatement of the fucking year." The Hound grunts, trotting his horse forward while Pod follows him.

"She was only trying to fulfill her duty to Lady Catelyn." Pod breathes defensively, waving to the two carriage-dragging travelers who watch them go with bewildered faces. "She didn't want a fight. I was there. There didn't need to be a fight, both of you wanted to look after Arya."

The Hound glowers down at him, making Pod question whether or not he should've gone so far. This man could easily cut him down without a second thought… "You should hitch a ride with those two and leave me be." He says, spurring his horse to trot faster.

"Those aren't warriors like you! Please, Clegane, she needs our help! She is Sansa Stark's Swornsword and we need to get back to Winterfell to protect her!" Pod pleads, desperate for his help.

"If that's true then ask the Stark girl to send men." The Hound replies, forcing his horse to abruptly stop again, "I'm heading there myself. You'll die out here without a horse dressed like that… Come on then. You can ride with me, have some ale, just watch your hands and don't grab onto anything below my belt."

Pod is astonished. _What changed his mind?_ "Th-Thank you, Ser Clegane… But I can't abandon My Lady!"

"I'm no Knight, Pod. Either you hop up here or I leave you to freeze in the snows. Doesn't make a difference to me." The Hound growls as the little man struggles to decide for a moment before finally rushing up to climb aboard the horse behind him. The Hound rolls his eyes and reaches down to help him. When Pod is saddled with both his arms barely reaching around Sandor's midriff, they continue northward. "I'm not stopping again until I need to take a shit, so don't fall off."


	33. Bran IV

Bran

 _Wake up!_ A distant voice calls, sounding familiar, like The Three-Eyed Raven was speaking to him in his dreams. Bran can't see. Darkness surrounds him. He can feel blue eyes on him. He tries to escape, running as fast as his legs can carry him, but the darkness is endless. Everywhere he turns, blue eyes stare back at him. _Wake up!_ Bran begins to panic, inhaling icy air and realizing he is about to die. _Wake up, Bran! Wake up!_

Bran wakes up, back in his old bedroom, lying in the same bed he woke up from after falling out of that tower all those years ago. Meera is standing over him holding a plate of eggs, sliced ham, and potatoes for him. She holds a concerned look on her face that tells Bran right away he'd been having a nightmare again. "Are you alright? Was it the visions?" She asks, sitting down on the bed beside his numb legs. Bran touches his moist forehead and realizes he's been sweating profusely. Before he can answer her questions, she asks "Was it The White Walkers?"

"I think it was just a nightmare." Bran tells her softly, "Don't worry about it."

Bran and Meera had been given his old chambers to share. Jon had offered Meera a separate room, to which denied. Jon is happy with this news, and congratulated Bran on finding a woman when Meera is not within earshot. Bran told him everything about her, and how they'd grown fond of each other. Both of them agree they will have trouble sleeping alone in a bedroom again after everything they experienced, and Bran is happy to have her sleep beside him. She is warm and quiet and never fusses when Bran tries to take all the sheets for himself in his sleep. She is good to him, always helping him move throughout the castle and preparing his meals. She went with him everywhere he went. Jon liked her and the two got along splendidly, much to Bran's relief. Sansa on the other hand barely speaks two words to her yet. Bran doesn't think she has anything against her, but he does think Sansa has grown… _distant_ since he'd known her. When she told him she might be getting married soon, both Bran and Meera congratulated her, only for Sansa to tear up and excuse herself from the room. Jon told her not to worry about her, and that he was going to take care of it.

"We should see my brother today. I need to remind him again about The Wall, make sure he sends Lord Commander Edd more soldiers like I promised him." Bran says as he eats his eggs. "I can't shake this feeling that something bad is going to happen soon."

"The Wall has never fallen, Bran, and if it does it won't be your fault. We went over this." Meera sighs, caressing his knee even though he cannot feel it. "You take on too much responsibility."

"I'm the Three-Eyed Raven now. I have to." Bran says, "Ever since I was given this ability… I feel like nothing can surprise me. I feel like I know everything ahead of time without really knowing it."

"What do you mean?" Meera asks.

"I don't know how else to explain it." Bran's mood only worsens the more he speaks of it. _Nobody will ever understand what it's like._ _This power…_ He has no idea how to use it, only that if used carelessly innocent people can suffer the consequences.

"Have you thought about using the weirwood tree that's here in Winterfell?" Meera asks, "Maybe we can learn more?"

"Maybe. I don't really know how it works. I don't control the visions I see, but I can sometimes control where in the past I want to visit, like at the Tower of Joy. Last time I touched one of the trees, I was able to direct myself to the tower, which isn't something I was ever able to do before."

"Where in the past do you want to go?"

"I'm not sure yet. There's so much I still don't know. I'm afraid it might take me a long time to learn everything." Bran sighs, "But now that we're here, hopefully I have all the time I need. I would like to try and learn more about Rhaegar Targaryen and why he chose my Aunt over his own wife, like the tales say."

"We can ask my father and see what he knows?" Meera suggests, "He's a good man. He's also a Warg, like you. He taught my brother and I everything about you and the Three-Eyed Raven that he knew, which wasn't much to begin with."

"You never speak of your father." Bran says, "Tell me more about him?"

"He was plagued with Greyscale when he was younger. He left when I was still in my mother's womb to find a cure and when he returned he claimed he was healed… Mother always said something had changed in him after he came back. I don't know what she meant, but whatever it was, father never let it show. Mother passed away a year before we met you... I love my father and I would do anything for him, as he would for me. He's the one who sent us to find you. He deserves to know about Jojen as well…"

"I remember Jojen said that when he told your father the news of my father's death, he saw him cry for the first time in his life. I'd like to meet your father." Bran smiles, taking her hand in his. She smiles warmly back at him before leaning in and planting a quick, soft kiss on his lips. Bran's cheeks burn. It's the first time he's ever been kissed by a girl. Both of them stare into each other's eyes, and Bran realizes then and there that he loves her.

"Whoa." Bran breathes.

Meera grins, "Bet you didn't see _that_ coming."


	34. Arya IV

Arya

"I saw'r a man today jump off the walls and crash into the Blackwater rocks while his son watched and waved goodbye like he was just takin' a trip." Says Rynold before taking a swig from his tankard. "Any of you think you can beat that?"

"I've got the winner but I'll save the best for last." Snickers Harwick, picking at his nose with a dagger.

"You always say that but you never win." Thod points out, "I've got one but it's not as funny as Rynold's. I found some kids in an alley eating a dead dog, their hands digging through its guts like a pie and stuffing their faces with blood. I nearly lost me own lunch after that."

"What'd you do?" Rynold asks, hardly sounding like he cared.

"I kicked at them until they ran off, of course. One kept eating even after I whipped him with my sword. Must've been starving, the little monsters!" Thod laughs, shaking his head, and takes a drink of his ale. A mistress wearing nothing but a translucent gown walks over and serves them another platter of drinks and chicken. Harwick smacks her on the ass while Thod inspects the chicken. Several flies buzz around it.

"Come here, love." Thod gestures to the wench and she grimaces. "What is the meaning of this? Do you serve rotted chicken to paying customers here?"

"I-It can't be, m'lords." The serving wench stammers, her eyes wide with horror.

"I'll have this place shut down, you know. I'm paid by the Lannisters." Thod looks like he is about to stand when Harwick grabs his arm, chuckling.

"Sit down, we're off duty."

"This bitch means to poison us!"

"I'm sure it was a mistake. My Lady, will you fix our meal for us?"

"I-I'm terribly sorry, m'lords. We don't have any chickens left. This was the last we could…"

"Find?" Thod looks unimpressed, sourly picking at the chicken leg in front of him. "No wonder this place is in shambles. You'll be out of business without my help before long. Fucking commoners."

"May I finally tell mine now? I swear I've got you both beat." Harwick pleads with a wicked grin.

"Fine, go ahead." Rynold yawns.

The serving wench walks away, whispering to a fellow wench to avoid the Lannister guards unless called for. The three men don't hear her, but Arya does. She sits at the bar with her head down in her arms, the face of an old man masking her real one. She is pretending to be passed out from too much to drink. She finds that with her eyes closed, she can hear the entire room better, and is able to focus her attention on the Lannister Guardsmen over the rest of the bar's patrons. Three empty tankards sit in front of her. She hates alcohol, but to keep up appearances she drank all three, and although she is only pretending to be unconscious, the lightheadedness is very real. She can see why men like The Hound would constantly partake of it, it gives her a strange, weightless feeling—like she can accomplish anything she wants.

Harwick clears his throat and tells his story, "Today I was down in Flea Bottom where the real sick shit you can find hides. The Commander said someone had stolen one of the heads off of the walls where we mounted them last week, and had me looking for the freak that snatched it. Just so happens it was the head of that boy, y'know, the one the Kingslayer struck down in cold blood. Don't know how he got it down from up there, must've 'ad help. Anyways, I find this hysterical woman telling me there's a man doing terrible things behind one of the shops in the market. I go there and guess what he was doing to it?"

"Was he eating it?" Asks Rynold, looking bored as always. "If he was eating it then I think I win. Suicide is more disturbing than cannibalism."

"He wasn't eating it." Harwick sounds like he is about to burst his gut with laughter. "He had his pants down and he was _fucking_ it! Giving himself a blowjob right there behind the shops where any and all who walks by could see. The fucking lunatic was shouting something crazy but I don't remember what. We cut him down and put both their heads where they belonged, though now the kid's mouth won't stay closed!" He can't contain it—the laugh comes barking out of him and both of his buddies laugh along with him before all three chug their drinks.

Arya can't handle this much longer. These men deserve to be put down just as much as the Queen. For now though she needs to remain in the shadows, watching and listening. After one day in King's Landing Arya found an innkeep on the edge of the city where mostly fishermen lived. One allowed her to stay for free if she helped catch fish. Arya agreed, and had spent her whole morning out in the Blackwater. She had shelter and food to eat during the day. At night she would spend her time spying on the Lannister guards. These three in particular are a chatty bunch she picked from the rest. They talked often and loudly, though their rudeness and selfishness is hard to bear sometimes. At first she thinks Harwick is the best of them, but after her first night on the job she quickly realized he is by far the worst and most devious. The other two had make people like Lommy look smart, but not Harwick. She once followed him back to his quarters where she heard him raping a woman inside, keeping her locked away just for himself. It was after this she added Harwick to her list.

Hours drift by as the men got drunk, get up from the table, and pay the barkeep with a fart and a laugh. "Like we're going to pay you slum to do your jobs. Consider yourselves lucky we don't execute the lot of you for serving us rotting chicken." Harwick tells them, leading his friends out the doors…

All of the sudden the little old drunk man who had been passed out in the shadows sits up straight, takes out his coin purse (which Arya had stolen), and pays the barkeep an extra coin. "Thanks for your help." Is all the old man tells him before shuffling out the door with a spring in his step, no doubt leaving the barkeep and his wenches in amazement.

Once outside, Arya slides into the shadows and watches through the eyes of an old man as the three guards in their red armor and capes shove beggars in the streets out of their way, yelling at anyone they can. Half naked people with nowhere to live, starving in the gutters, and begging for help… _and all these men can do is threaten them?_ Arya follows, keeping herself within earshot as the sun begins to set over the city. Pretty soon they will all go home, and Arya will leave without feeling like she is getting any closer to finding a way into the Red Keep. The only plan she can think of would be to steal one of the guard's faces, but Arya knows she can never pass as a guard with her short and skinny stature. Old people and young boys or girls she can do, she had stolen those faces from the House of Black and White, but none of them would get her beyond the audience chamber where it would be impossible to assassinate the Queen in front of so many witnesses and, on top of that, her Queensguard.

As Harwick, Rynold, and Thod head to the Red Keep, Arya hears the third say, "Have you heard the tales about a so-named _rebellion_ hiding somewhere in the city?"

Harwick snickers, "A rebellion of poor and starving insects is hardly a rebellion at all."

"That's what the Queen thinks too."

Arya creeps closer, wanting to hear more of this. Harwick goes on, saying, "Aye, I heard of them. What of it, Thod?"

"Think the peasants would dare rise up now? After what happened at the Sept?" Rynold asks.

"Not really, I was just wondering if you guys heard about it is all."

"If any of them try and start something the Queen will put them down. No question about it. You've seen that giant that protects her. I don't think any army of beggars would stand a chance against that thing, let alone any of us."

Arya stops and watches them go. She's heard enough for one night. These fools didn't know anything else about the rebellion. They'd already changed the subject to the descent in quality of whores these days. She will need to look somewhere else to find out more about this rebellion and if they are worth looking into.

She listens to the whispers in the night as she hobbles the streets, hearing conversations and learning about the people's plight. The Tyrells shut off supplies for the capital, so its people are starving and the Queen is holding all of the stores in her keep for herself. Every so often she will hear whispers of the rebellion and a man they call The Iron Bull that leads them. It isn't until morning when she sees a crowd of people who all are walking hastily up a street from the dockyard. All of them have shifty eyes looking up and down the streets, and Arya suspects these people might have answers. She follows a couple—a young man and woman in dirty clothes, down into Flea Bottom. She follows them all the way to the bridge that they lived under, and watches as they start a fire. Arya decides to approach them, and checks her face to make sure the old man's features are still in all the right places. Last thing she needed is for the mask to slip and scare away the homeless duo.

"Excuse me, you two? Might I share your fire?" She asks in the old and dry voice she'd practiced. They both jump, looking her up and down and smiling nervously.

"Of course." Says the homeless man, "Our fire is yours. We don't have any food we can share… and the water is undrinkable. But there's plenty of room for you here, my friend."

"Thank you." Arya, acting as the old man, hobbles to them slowly, bundling herself up under her dilapidated robes. "It's a cold night, eh?"

"Winter's coming." Says the woman, half her teeth missing, as she holds a tin can of water over the fire. "That's what they say in the north."

"Winter's already here." The man corrects her, "Just hasn't snowed yet."

"Are you two together?" Arya asks, keeping her voice in line with her disguise.

They both chuckle. "No, brother and sister. Well, half-brother and sister. Same Mother, Different Fathers."

"I have a half-brother too." Arya says, coughing. "Erm, well, I did. He's dead now, I mean."

"That's a shame." Says the young woman.

"He was a good man…"

"We need more good men in this world." Sighs the brother. All three of them huddle closer around the small, flickering flames. Arya thinks she can trust these people, and asks them their names.

"I'm Baenor and my sister is—"

"I can say my own bloody name myself, twat." Snaps his sister fiercely, making them both laugh. "I'm Hilda. What's your name, old man?"

"Yoren." She replies with a croak. "You wouldn't recognize my family name so I won't bother."

"Same for us." Hilda grins, "We weren't always like this, though."

"Lived on a farm out in the Stormlands until our ma' passed. Hilda's father died hunting when we were kids. So we decided to come here, thinking 'what better place for opportunity', eh?" Baenor grimaces.

"Fucking Lannisters. This city used to be something until they came along." Hilda says sourly.

"The Mad Queen deserves to hang." The old man agrees, eyeing them keenly as both of them glance at each other. "Sorry. I know it's treason to say such things."

"We understand. Listen Yoren, have you heard about the…the uh…" Baenor leans in closely and whispers, " _The Rebellion_?"

The old man frowns and shakes his head.

"Baenor, wait…" Hilda says, her voice cracking with hesitation all of the sudden.

"It's alright, sister. We can trust this man. I can tell."

"What if someone is listening?"

" _Seven Hells_ —we'll whisper."

Arya smiles, "What's this about a rebellion?"

"A man who calls himself the Iron Bull leads it. We never see his face. He wears a Bull's helm whenever he speaks to us." Baenor grins like a child about to talk about a great secret, "He's a warrior, he says. Claims to have killed more than a hundred Lannisters and will not stop until he sees the Queen dead as well."

"He's truly inspirational to us all." Hilda sighs, "But so far we haven't been doing much but meeting at the docks at night to listen to him speak. He gives us hope, like he knows exactly how he's going to fix the city and give proper life back to the homeless again…"

"Sounds like a great man. I'd like to meet him."

Both of them smile and say in unison, "We can arrange that."


	35. Jon III

Jon

The long, stone corridors stretch on into darkness ahead. The Crypts of Winterfell is a place Jon prefers to avoid. He was always afraid whenever Ned Stark took him down here. This time Jon has Ghost with him, and riding on the white direwolf's back is Bran. Both brothers eye the statues they pass wearily until finally coming upon the one they'd set out to find.

"So this was my mother…" Jon says under his breath, stroking the statue's cheek and admiring its grace. He can tell whoever carved this from stone took care with it. "I never knew much about her. Father… I mean, Lord Eddard always spoke kindly about her…"

He can feel Bran's eyes on him. "He _was_ your father, Jon. He raised you."

"He lied to me my entire life." Jon says sourly.

"He was protecting you."

"He could have told me... Any time he wanted he could've told me the truth." Jon grimaces. "I remember he almost did the last time I saw him. He promised to speak of my mother next time we met."

"Father loved you like his own son, Jon." Bran tells him, recalling how Theon had once betrayed them. Bran wonders if Theon had felt similar to how Jon is feeling now.

"We're _really_ cousins, y'know." Jon smiles sadly down at him.

"We're brothers and we'll always be brothers. I don't care what blood you have."

"I know, I know." Jon wraps his arm around Bran's head, mussing his hair with his knuckles. They chortle like they did when they were younger, their laughter booming down the hollow halls…

"Am I interrupting?"

Jon and Bran turn and see Petyr Baelish standing a few feet away with his arms behind his back, a sly smirk on his face. Terror strikes Jon's heart as Ghost growls, bearing his teeth up at Littlefinger. _How much has he heard?_

"Lord Brandon." Petyr bows before them curtly, "When I saw you had arrived I nearly wept with joy. Lady Catelyn may rest at peace knowing all her children are together and safe once again… Well, _almost_ all of them… You have my deepest sympathies for your losses and all you've been through, Lord Stark."

"I thank you, Lord…" Bran trails off, looking to Jon for answers.

"Baelish." Jon finishes for him. Ghost, meanwhile, is keeping his red, beady eyes on Lord Baelish, the growl smoldering in his throat...

"You may call me Petyr, Lord Stark." Littlefinger smiles, unperturbed by the direwolf Bran straddles, "Though chances are you'll be used to calling me Littlefinger soon, as most in the realm has taken to calling me."

"Petyr is fine," Bran smiles politely. Jon reminds himself to inform Bran later not to trust Lord Baelish. Bran is innocently smiling up at him, unaware that this is the last man in Winterfell that Jon wanted to know about his bloodline.

"Lord Baelish, may I speak to you in private?" Jon asks before Littlefinger can address Bran further. Littlefinger simply nods and the two men leave, Jon assuring Bran he'll be back soon. Bran watches him go from the back of Ghost, the candles around every shrine flickering in the darkness…

Once they are deeper into the crypts, Jon realizes he has never been down this far before. The air here is hotter and harder to breath, the candles burn brighter as well. Before Jon can wonder why this is, Littlefinger turns to address him. "Forgive me, I came looking for you and did not expect to find you with your brother."

"It's alright, I've been spending most days with him. We were just visiting my Aunt's grave…" Littlefinger's smirk doesn't betray whatever was going on inside his head, to Jon's disappointment. "I suppose you're looking for your answer."

"I am." Littlefinger's smirk widens, giving away anticipation. _He truly wants me to say yes._

"My sister does not wish to marry you."

"That much is clear, Your Grace."

"But we need your Knights of the Vale for the wars to come as well as the support of the people. You know this as well as I do. So I will grant you permission to marry Sansa, but only under certain conditions." Jon never looks away from his eyes as he speaks, watching for any sign of dissatisfaction. "First, you must treat my sister with the love and care that you claim to have for her. That means if I hear one word of abuse or mistreatment in any way at all, I will have your head. Second condition is that Sansa must stay here in Winterfell. It is her home, not the Vale. You are welcome to stay here and leave when you wish, but you must never force her to leave her home against her will. You break this, and I will hunt you down and have your head. Thirdly, you will respect Sansa's wishes and there will be no bedding ceremony after the wedding. She will have her own room to herself and you will not be permitted to bed her until she consents. These conditions are unnegotiable. Break them, and I _will_ have your head."

Littlefinger's expression is unreadable, the corners of his lips barely forming his usual smirk. "I understand, Your Grace. After everything she's been through, I do not blame her or you for these… conditions."

"You're really fine with all of that?"

"Of course. You are her brother and my King, after-all. You have every right to set these terms just as you have every right to marry your sister to me as King of the North." Littlefinger's words unnerve Jon. _How can he be so accepting of this?_ Jon expected resistance yet Littlefinger suddenly appears happier than ever. "When might we wed, Your Grace?"

"In a week. We must prepare. I can marry you in the godswood, or—"

"I'd prefer somewhere else, if you don't mind me saying, Your Grace. Sansa was married to Ramsay Snow in those woods. I have no desire to put Lady Sansa through such traumatic memories. I would prefer, by your permission, to marry Sansa in the Grey Hall."

"We can arrange it." Jon agrees, feeling sick with himself. _What have I done? This was all too easy for him. I am King. I should be able to stop this somehow… But I can't. There's no other way to keep the Vale's support._

"I thank you, Jon. You are a wiser man than your father was. Ned Stark's honor was his undoing in the end. Neither Cersei nor Joffrey was truly at fault the day old Ned lost his head. It was his honor that killed him. Such an honorable man, I can only imagine what it must be like to follow in a man like that and his immeasurable footsteps…"

"I'm proud of him. Men like you can do well learn from his example."

Littlefinger actually laughs at this. "Some men can only dream of being honorable. Most men think they are, when in fact they're worse than those they despise. But you're right, Lord Stark was the most honorable man I've ever known… Such honor… I wonder…"

"Wonder what, Lord Baelish?"

"Such a strange thing... How could a man as honorable as Eddard Stark betray his wife and bring home a bastard from the war? Such a strange thing, one might find hard to believe, Your Grace. I suppose none of us will ever truly know why, will we?" Littlefinger casts him a shrewd look as he walks away. Jon watches him go, questioning once again what his father would've done, and if this decision will ultimately cost his relationship with his sister…


	36. Arya V

Arya

It's midnight. Hundreds of people are pushing and shoving each other to get a better look at the Iron Bull. Arya, disguised as old man Yoren, keeps in character and remains out of the commotion, staying in the back with her two new friends. Baenor and Hilda showed her the way to the secret meeting place, whispering three separate passwords at three separate checkpoints to get in. Arya is impressed. As they maneuver through the crowd of peasants, some naked and starving, she sees The Iron Bull standing on a dock over the water's edge so that everyone in the yard could watch him give his grand speech. " _The Mad Queen's reign has gone on long enough! Our people starve and die in the streets! Our children resort to cannibalism! Do we do nothing about this disgrace? Do we sit by and watch our once proud city fall?!_ " The Iron Bull's voice is deep and commanding, muffled only by the bull's helm over his face. Arya can't believe her eyes. She's seen a helm like that before. _But it can't be._

" _If every man in this city rises up against her we could take it all back from them! We'd outnumber her army ten to one! Spread our message, good people! Spread our message to everyone with ears to hear it! I want the city to feel the rage I feel when I look around at all of your tired faces! I am only one man! I alone cannot defeat The Mad Queen! But together we can end her tyranny!_ "

A swell of cheers bursts forth from everyone around her and Arya loses sight of the Iron Bull behind pumping fists in air. She curses her small size, trying to peek over their heads on her toes. "I want to meet him." She tells Baenor and Hilda.

"Don't we all? But nobody here knows his true name or face. He is a Mystery Knight." Hilda says dreamily, watching as the Iron Bull strides back and forth, riling them on.

"You all follow a man and you've never seen his face?" Arya asks, almost losing control of her voice.

"Aye. We trust him. He keeps his face hidden so that if The Mad Queen finds out about us nobody can rat him out."

As the Iron Bull finishes his speech, he bows before them all dramatically, drawing his sword and plunging it into the wooden beams of the dock beneath his boots. " _I hereby pledge to you all on my honor as a Knight! I will take back King's Landing! I will take back your homes! The time will come where we will all stand together and fight the oppression!_ " More cheers from the humongous audience follows this closing statement. The Iron Bull seems to look right at Arya and she gulps, nearly forgetting that she is wearing a mask too.

After the crowd disperses, Arya stays behind, wishing her friends well on their travels back under the bridge. She follows the Iron Bull, who greets members of the rebellion with open arms and offer whatever comforting words he can in their times of trouble. Arya likes this man, and she has a feeling she knows why, but had to make sure. Once mostly everyone is gone, she approaches him, hobbling like the old man she appeared to be.

"Greetings, my friend." The Iron Bull says to her, "Thank you for coming, I know it must be late for you. Allow me to help you sit down?" He gestures to a barrel beside the water.

"Let me see your face." The old man says in a voice much younger, and feminine.

The Iron Bull tilts his head and says, "I am sorry, I cannot do that. Anyone could be watching right now. The Hand has his little birds in every shadow. Please, I hope you understand."

"You've gotten taller." Arya smiles. "Still an idiot though."

"Do I…Do I know you?" The Iron Bull asks as the old man lifts his hand and peels back his face, revealing a much younger, female face. His reaction is worth a thousand chickens, as The Hound would say. The Iron Bull staggers backward, his armor clunking awkwardly as he gasps, "Arya!? What're you—?"

She lifts her finger over her lips, telling him to keep quiet. The Iron Bull looks around. Not many people are left. A few homeless women are chatting together by the water, their feet dangling over the edge of the docks. A small boy is playing with a ball down the road. A man with a bleeding leg is looking their way but his expression is vacant and unbothered. The Iron Bull beckons for Arya to follow him, and he leads her inside of a small inn called _The Black Diamond_. She follows him all the way up to his room, and only once the two of them are alone, does Gendry remove his helm.

As soon as she sees it's him, Arya loses control and flies into his arms. She nearly knocks him off his feet despite being twice her size. "I thought you were dead!" Arya whispers, sniffing back tears.

Gendry laughs, tightly embracing her. "I thought you were too." He whispers back, "Thank the Gods."

As he pulls away and smiles down at her, he says, "You're going to have to explain why you were dressed up as an old man for me."

So she tells him. That night Arya sits down and tells Gendry everything about her travels with The Hound, her journey to Braavos, and her training with The Faceless Men. It felt so good just to have a friend she could talk to again. For the first time in a long time, Arya felt like Arya Stark again.

"First time we met I thought you were a little boy. Guess it's only fitting I'd find you again as an old man after all this time." Gendry jests and Arya laughs, tears streaming down her cheeks. "What's the matter?" he asks.

" _I'm just so bloody happy you're not dead!_ " Arya wails, uncontrollable tears freely falling down her cheeks.

"Well it was a close call. A man named Davos saved me from The Red Woman. Put me on a boat before they could execute me." Gendry lifts up his hand and wipes away the tears on Arya's face, and she doesn't resists. "I sailed back to the only place I could call home. But this city is a mess, as you can see."

"Is that why you're lying to everyone? Telling them you're a Knight and swearing to have killed a hundred Lannisters?" Arya asks coyly.

Gendry's cheeks burn red as he says, "The people need a hero. There's no heroes left in this world anymore. They need someone to believe in. Someone who will bring back the peace and justice they deserve. A hero like back in the Age of Heroes… I can be that hero, but Gendry can't. The Iron Bull _has_ killed a hundred Lannisters, and the Iron Bull _is_ a Knight. He is, because the people _believe_ he is, you see?"

"Sounds like lying to me." Arya smirks.

"And what you're doing isn't?" He asks, frowning.

"Calm down, Gendry. I'm only messing with you." She says, punching him in the arm.

"I forgot how much of a pain you are…" Gendry winces, eyeing her up and down. "You've grown a lot, y'know."

"Now that's definitely a lie." Arya smiles, "You're the one that's grown. You're bloody huge!"

"I've been training hard." Gendry tells her unabashed, "Not every man in the Gold Cloaks is a sadistic arse. Some are willing to give me some fighting lessons in return for some free armor upgrades."

"Doesn't make you a Knight, though." Arya tells him, "Gendry… I think you should stop."

The look he gives her is overwhelming, as if she'd just suggested they both go and commit suicide together. "What do you mean? I thought you were on my side about this?"

"I am. But you're going to get killed. What do you think happens when you try and take on The Mountain or Cersei's Queensguard?"

"I don't know but I won't be alone… I have the support of hundreds. More than what you saw here tonight. Thousands maybe soon. I won't rest until we've accomplished it. I won't see anyone else suffer. There's enough of that going around."

Arya debates internally about telling Gendry of her own plans, yet she has a feeling she will look like a hypocrite after just telling him he should abandon _his_. Instead, she says, "If you're not going to quit then let me help you."

Gendry shakes his head, then eyes the old man's face still rolled up in her grasp. "How can you help me?"

Arya grins and lifts up her cloak, taking out a small knapsack. She opens it up and reveals five faces. All of them are paper-thin and kept in-tact, wrapped in leather bindings. Arya lifts one out—the face a very young boy, and holds it up in the air for him to see.

"They look so real." He says, poking it.

"They _were_ real, once."

Gendry immediately withdraws his finger, gaping at her. "You can't be serious… Put that thing away! I don't want to see those! Please don't tell me you cut those off yourself…"

"No, you idiot. I've only done that once, and it wasn't very… clean…" The Waif's tormented screams when Arya peeled her face off still lingers in her memories. "I took them from the House of Black and White."

"Because that's not wrong either?"

Arya hits him again and he laughs. Already Arya can feel the depression built up from all these years of loss slipping away in his presence. Gendry is the only family she had left anymore. Jon has a new family at The Wall. Sansa has a new family in Winterfell. Bran and Rickon she had no idea about…

"Gendry, let me help you. The Mad Queen is responsible for the death of my father."

"How would you use these _faces_ anyway?" He asks.

"I'm not sure yet. I was hoping you could give me some ideas."

Gendry leans back in his chair, the candle on the table flickering as he ponders. "Well, if you want to get in the Red Keep, Queen Cersei holds regular public trials in her court you can go see if you feel like subjecting yourself to torture and violence. She usually ends every day with a beheading of some sort. But only nobles or highborn are allowed in those halls. You've got other faces but you're still—"

" _Small_. Don't remind me." growls Arya.

Gendry chuckles at her, "There is a way, but I can't be sure. The Hand of the Queen has an army of spies under his command. He calls them his Little Birds. Nobody knows where they are—only that they are everywhere and you can't trust one isn't watching or listening to you at all times. People have slandered the Queen not knowing a Little Bird was listening and they've lost their lives because of it."

 _Little birds?_ Arya frowns, "Why call them Little Birds?"

"I believe the last Master of Spies called them that, Lord Varys the Spider."

Arya remembers the Spider. She never trusted that man. Something about his oily skin and womanly voice just rubs her wrong. Perhaps it's because he's a eunuch, or… or… _Little Birds…_

"You don't think he can actually talk to birds do you?" Gendry asks her.

"Don't be _stupid_." She snaps, pacing the small room in a circle. "What happened to Lord Varys?"

"Rumors say he broke the Imp out of the dungeons and sailed away with him to Essos. No one has heard or seen him since. The current Hand of the Queen took over his line of work and adopted the Little Birds as his own, which tells me only one thing; that whoever they are, their loyalty can be bought."

"How does one become a Little Bird?" Arya asks, deciding to take a seat across the table from him.

"I don't know. I think the Hand choses himself. You can't just sign up for it." Gendry rubs his black, bristly chin. "But with those masks you can be anyone you want and if they see you it doesn't matter because you can just toss that old face into the sea and put on a new one. You don't need to become one of them, you just need to follow one back to its nest and—"

"And kill the Mother Bird."


	37. Jaime III

Jaime

"So let me get this straight," Bronn says as Jaime dresses behind a partisan in his Lannister armor, "You're asking me now for the third time to go with you on some _insane_ assignment for your _insane_ sister because of some _insane_ reason? Oh, and on top of that, you still haven't paid me for the last two times I helped ya'."

"You know that's not true. You've been paid."

"Aye, but it wasn't the agreed upon amount. Nowhere near. You still owe me a lot more. I believe it was an even bigger castle and a more beautiful wife of my own choosing, wasn't it?" Bronn rolls his eyes, slipping his dagger into its sheath. He just finished cleaning his nails with it.

The two of them are in Jaime's chambers. Jaime summoned the sellsword to ask for his partnership. He is to set out for Winterfell today, and Jaime has no intention of going alone with only one hand to defend himself with, and after the spectacle the other day he made of persuading Cersei not to send their army with him, he'd look the fool to ask her for assistance now. Bronn is his only option... _My only friend in King's Landing._

"I expect you'll pay me triple then." Bronn says.

"Triple? You want three castles and three wives?"

"For starters, yeah. You're talking about assassinating The King of the North and his sister. This isn't the same thing as fixing Frey sieges or fighting treacherous cunts in Dorne. Give me one good reason why I shouldn't just tell you to fuck off right now?"

"We're friends, aren't we?" Jaime sneers, "More than that, I need you. I can't fight alone out there, and if I end up taking on the King of the North without backup I'm afraid no girl will ever get another chance to ride this golden hand."

"Like any girl had a chance." Bronn scoffs, "Your hand is so far up your sister's ass you might as well be living in there."

"Does that mean you'll help me?"

Bronn considers him with narrowed eyes. "Aye, I'll come with you. Tyrion always paid me, y'know."

"I told you not to talk about my brother."

"Aye, you told me. But until you pay me I'm going to keep talking how I like. You know that."

"Fine... Bronn…" Jaime fishes for the right words to say. The Kingslayer lifts his real hand up for the Sellsword to shake. Bronn takes it. "Thank you, my friend."

Before they can say another word the door to Jaime's room opens and one of Cersei's Queensguard stands at attendance. "You've been summoned by Her Grace, the Queen. I'm to escort you both to the Throne Room."

"Both?" Bronn crosses his arms, "What's this about?"

"She wants to see me off before we leave." Jaime mutters. He should've left the city before Cersei did something like this. As much as a part of him still loves her, he anxiously desires to escape her clutches over him.

Every night he was summoned to her chamber. Every night he was forced to do her bidding, pleasing her at her command, giving his body over to her. When it was over he would lay awake in her bed, listening to Cersei sleep, hating himself, wondering where it all went wrong…


	38. Cersei III

Cersei

 _Jaime is leaving today._

This is the first thing Cersei thinks of as she wakes from her sleep, her chambers alight with the morning sun streaming through the golden windows. She stretches, yawns, and climbs over the pillows and sheets to get off her enormous bed and wander to her privy. In the mirror she studies her face, taking a liking to the short hair The High Sparrow gave her. It makes her look more like a man, and she decides she will keep it this way. Once she is dressed in her black gown with silver plated shoulders, Queen Cersei steps out from her room and greets The Mountain standing guard on the other side of her door with a curt nod of acknowledgment. He escorts her down into the throne room where the rest of her Queensguard stand in waiting, all enamored in golden armor. "Hail Queen Cersei!" Everyone in the court recites as she climbs the steps and takes her place on the throne.

She listens with disinterest as the commoners approach. Qyburn handles them for the most part, allowing Cersei's mind to drift off while she breaks her fast upon the throne. She thinks about her brother and wonders if he will abandon her now that she is giving him the chance to leave her sights. The possibility occurred to her when she threatened him last time, but Cersei always refused to believe Jaime was capable of betraying her. All her life he had stayed by her side. He is her's and will stay her's for the rest of time. _It doesn't matter what Jaime wants because in the end he will always obey me and do anything I command_. Cersei recognizes her brother's desire to do what the filthy commoners would consider justice, but Cersei's kind of justice is the supreme kind and nobody, not even the man she loves, will take that away from her.

When Jaime Lannister arrives with his sellsword Bronn, Cersei does not stand. She does not speak. She does not even blink. She only stares him down, daring him to say the first words. He glares back up at her in that way of his that always infuriates her, yet gives her loins a stirring. _Stubborn, Disrespectful… I should make him wait another week just so I can have him in my bed a little longer._

"You summoned us here before we could leave, Your Grace?" Jaime asks impatiently, "Wish to see us off? Give us some words of _wisdom_?"

"Yes." Cersei says coldly, "Do not forget your family, Jaime. You are my brother and I am your sister, but I tell you this now so you never forget… No matter where you are in the world, remember that I am the only one you've ever loved and who will ever love you. We belong together, brother. Now that I am Queen I can tell the entire Realm about it and nobody can slander us. I can make incest law if I want, and have anyone who insults it be put to death." She looks around at the rest of the room, most of the commoners and nobles have unsurprised expressions. "Nobody even cares. We worried about it for all those years, and for what?"

Jaime grits his teeth, desiring to leave with Bronn as soon as possible. "Is this really appropriate discussion right now?"

"It is if I will it." Cersei says, smiling cruelly. "I want to remind you, Ser Jaime, of the love we have, because if there ever comes a day where you think of betraying me I want you to remember our love. More than that, I want you to remember how I respond to people who betray me." Her brother looks confused by these words. _Good_ , she thinks, giving a curt nod to Qyburn.

The Hand of the Queen clears his throat before saying, "Ser Bronn of the Blackwater."

Jaime looks to his side where Bronn stands sharing an equally confused expression. He strides forward as summoned, his hands folded over his lap. "Yes?"

Qyburn smiles. "You have been charged with treason for your assistance in the death of King Joffrey Baratheon."

Bronn's hands fall to his sides. "What the fuck are you on about?"

"What's the meaning of this?!" demands Jaime, stepping up beside Bronn.

"Everyone knows you were Tyrion's right hand man." Cersei says calmly, though her words drip with contempt. "Until now I have left you unaccountable in your actions, but my other brother seems to have grown fond of you too. I am Queen and I will see all who commit treason punished. You are to be held in the dungeons until we can get information on Tyrion's whereabouts out of you."

"Oh no, no, no. You're not holding me _anywhere_." Bronn grins, sliding out his sword from its scabbard.

"You're punishing him because I stood up to you before?!" Jaime bellows at Cersei, "This is _madness!_ You can't kill _my_ men for _my_ sins! Bronn, we're leaving—"

"Seize him." commands Cersei.

The Mountain, along with all six of the other Queensguard, surround the two of them. Jaime pulls out his sword and stands back-to-back with Bronn.

"What are you doing? Get out of here!" Bronn yells at him as the first of the Queensguard rushes in, swinging his blade in a high arch above his head. Bronn kicks him in his knee before his swing can finish, dodging the wild attack and circling around behind him with his longsword angled to slice the guard's neck open in one fluid motion, spilling blood across the rich, clean floor. Every on-looker in the crowd screams with fright and enjoyment. Jaime can't believe what is happening. Cersei, on the other hand, is laughing from her throne over everyone else.

"Bronn! Let's go!" Jaime yells, blocking an attack to his left and dodging another on his right, though just barely. Bronn is close by, taking on three at once.

"You go!" Bronn roars back, "They want me, not you! Don't go dying for me, you cunt!"

 _He fights without honor, dodging around like he's untouchable,_ Cersei observes, originally expecting this man to go down without much effort. But when Bronn of the Blackwater cut off the head of another Queensguard, Cersei shouts for The Mountain, who is being blocked by Jaime, to end it. For one second Cersei is sure The Mountain will cut Jaime in two as he swung his giant sword around—but Jaime is quick and dodges it successfully; only to get tackled by another of the guards, his sword falling to the floor. He reaches for it… but alas, it is his golden hand and not his real one that touches the sword's handle. The Mountain walks around him, making way for Bronn, who is too busy fighting off two others to notice the giant.

At the last second, Bronn hears The Mountain's clinking armor as he brings his greatsword down. Bronn dances left and feels warm blood splash his face as the huge, beast of a sword cuts cleanly through one of the Queensguard he was fighting, his golden armor breaking as though made of butter, both sides of his head peeling in opposite directions. Bronn is stunned and tries to back away—but The Mountain's arm plunges forth, fingers fastening around his throat. Gasping as all the air is pushed from his lungs, Bronn is lifted off his feet and thrown onto the floor with enough force to break a rib or two, his sword spinning wildly out of reach.

Jaime kicks at the guard who tackled him, freeing himself enough to take his own sword in hand—but the other two Queensguard decide to surround him. He is dragged back down by three men in heavy armor, forced to his knees while his hands are pinned behind his back. "Sit still, Kingslayer!" Hisses one of the men in his ear.

"Unhand me! I am the Queen's brother!" Jaime growls, elbowing one of them in their helm and hearing a satisfying crunch; but it is not enough to remove them. Meanwhile Bronn is back on his feet, his small, curved dagger now his only weapon. "Bronn! You can't beat him!" Jaime shouts, "Run! Get out of King's Landing! Just go!"

But Bronn does not stand down. "I'm getting old. Old men get tired. You don't need to tell me I won't win. I'm not going down without a fucking fight, so don't tell me that. Nor am I going to live the rest of my days being hunted like a dog!"

The Mountain charges again, this time swinging his greatsword sideways through the air. Bronn leaps backward, feeling the blade tear at the leather clothing around his belly. All the while Cersei just keeps on laughing.

"Come on then, I don't have all day, Pig-Fucker." Bronn curses, daring The Mountain to get closer.

The Mountain obliges, thrusting the greatsword two-handedly at his chest. Bronn dodges, only instead of leaping back he leaps forwards up onto The Mountain himself, sinking his dagger between the folds of armor that protects his neck. Bronn roars with triumph, ripping his blade out and landing behind his enemy on both feet while The Mountain falls to one knee, clutching his now bleeding neck with one hand. Bronn backs away from him, noticing black blood oozing off from his dagger's edge. Jaime can't believe it. Neither can Cersei. Her laughing stops.

"Stand, Clegane!" Cersei commands. "Stand and fight for your Queen! I've changed my mind, bring me his head!"

"Have no fear, my Queen." Qyburn tells her.

The Mountain lowers his bloodied hand from his neck, and more black liquid gushes out from the wound that would normally fell a man, even one as big as him. Instead The Mountain rises back up again, breathing heavily under his helm. His red eyes fixate themselves on Bronn, lighting and pointing the greatsword up at the smaller man's chest.

"Fuck me." Bronn sighs with a disheartened expression, "You can't be killed, can ya?"

The Mountain advances on him wordlessly… and Bronn's dagger clatters to the floor. Jaime's jaw drops with it. " _Bronn_ , what are you _doing_?"

"Before I die, I want to say one thing." Bronn says, turning his back on his enemy, he glares up at the Queen. She lifts her hand and The Mountain halts a mere foot shy from cutting him down. Bronn clears his throat, wipes his greasy hair back with his hands, and chuckles under his breath. "Tyrion Lannister taught me that a Lannister always pays their debts. All you Lannisters can't help yourselves with that saying, can you? He also told me about how perfectly awful you were to him, and after you put him away in a dungeon and had him trialed for a murder he didn't commit, he escaped. Well a Lannister _always_ pays their debts. One day, Tyrion Lannister is going to come back to pay the debt he owes you, and my only regret is not being there to see him do it."

The Mountain's sword cuts clean through Bronn's neck as soon as the last word escapes his lips. First his head tumbles to the floor, then his body follows. Jaime's screams of horror come hand-in-hand with The Mad Queen's triumphant laugh. The Mountain lifts up the sellsword's head for the room to witness. Cersei is pleased, already forgetting every word the dirty little man said.

The three remaining Queensguard and The Mountain release Jaime from captivity, and as he stands up his soul stays behind on the floor… Made to watch his one and only friend in the city butchered for no good reason, Jaime glares through tears up at his sister. "Never mind what Father would think of you, The Mad King would be proud to see you now… Bronn was a _good man!_ He didn't deserve this!"

"A good _fighter_ , maybe. I admit, I did not think he would take down three of my greatest warriors. I'll need to find more now." Cersei's smile is piercing and drives him mad. She can see it in his eyes. He hates her, but more than that he's _afraid_ of her. "Now do you understand what loyalty means, Ser Jaime? Never again disobey, ignore, or argue a command from me. You are mine, brother. Now leave, and only come back with the heads I require… unless you wish to meet the same fate as your friend... Qyburn, see that his head is mounted on the outer walls with the rest. I want this corpse out of the throne room before it starts to smell."


	39. The Hound II

The Hound

A cold, white storm is raging across the North, blowing endless waves of snow against Sandor Clegane's face, blinding his sights. If there was a road beneath them still, it is covered in thick powder. His lazy, dumb horse has probably led them astray. "This storm's never going to end!" He hollers back to Pod, who is curled up and shivering behind him, his face so pale he appears half dead. "Pod!? _Pod_!?"

"B-B-B-B-Br-Br—" The Squire stutters, his eyes half-closed. The Hound removes his traveling cloak, cursing under his breath. It's a lot colder without it, but Pod needs it more. He wraps the small man up in a bundle.

"You better not fucking die before we get there! I'm not freezing my arse off for no damn reason!" The Hound hollers, kicking his horse to get going. The horse looks back at him begrudgingly and comes to a stop. "Get moving!" Sandor commands, kicking again. Suddenly the horse whines and gives in under their weight, collapsing on all legs, sending both The Hound and Pod crashing down into the snow.

Sandor grunts in pain, one of his legs pinned by the horse's body. It is still breathing, though he can tell the beast had given up on life. The winds of winter were too much for it.

The Hound pulls Pod up from the snow and slings him over his shoulders. _At least now the damn cloak can keep me warm as well. Sorry horse._ Before he trudges onward through the blistering cold, The Hound decides to show mercy on the horse for getting them this far, and breaks its neck from the pressure of his boot. With Pod weighing him down, Sandor Clegane marches onward through the storm. _Winterfell is not far. Just wait for me, Little Bird. I'm almost there._


	40. Sansa IV

Sansa

"You're lying…"

"I'm not lying… Sansa…"

" _Don't!_ " Sansa turns away from him. Her hands are shaking. Before Jon arrived in her tower, Sansa just got done thinking to herself _, I must be out of tears by now, surely…_ yet here they come, blinding her against her will. _Stop it, tears! Stop crying like a little girl! You're pathetic! You're weak! You're stupid!_

"Sansa, try to understand why I have to do this, please." Jon begs her, "The Knights of the Vale are 40,000 strong. Without them I have less than 8,000 between the rest of my Bannermen and the Free Folk. And even with all of us put together that's still not enough for what comes beyond The Wall."

Sansa glares indifferently at him. "All this talk about horrors beyond The Wall, you expect me to just stand here and believe it?"

Jon's face sags, astonished. "You don't believe me? You don't believe the hundreds of thousands of men who died fighting The White Walkers? Do you think Bran is lying as well?" Sansa turns away again, shaking her head. "Sansa, I know you have trouble trusting me. After everything the Lannisters and Boltons put you through I don't blame you. But we're _family_ , Sansa."

"You promised to protect me." Sansa responds, refusing to look at him again. It's easier to stay angry with him if she didn't have to see his eyes. "You promised me. I believed you, you know. I truly believed you, of all the people I could ever find, would never betray me."

"I _am_ protecting you, Sansa. That's what you don't realize. This is the only way to protect you, Bran, and everyone in Westeros." Jon's voice sounds somber and regretful, but Sansa doesn't care. Nothing he can say could convince her this wasn't a mistake. "I'm sorry, I truly am. I wish this choice wasn't mine to make, but it is. I made Lord Baelish swear to certain conditions that must be met and if broken—"

"What then? If he decides to take me or rape me like Ramsay, would you stop him or let him have me so that you can have your army to fight off grumpkins and snarks?"

"I won't let that happen, Sansa. I swear to you, on my honor, if Littlefinger hurts you in any way I will defend you and execute him _immediately_. You have my word." Sansa wishes she can trust his word. He reaches out to take her hand and for a second she considers pulling away… but she allows him to, still refusing to look him in the eye. "I love you, sweet sister. I hope you can forgive me someday…"

As he leaves, Sansa closes her eyes and waits for the sound of the lock to click. She expects tears will come bursting out of her then, now that she is alone… Instead she stifles them, wiping her eyes and glaring at her own reflection in the mirror on her desk. She watches herself regain her composure as the reality of what Jon told her sinks in at last… _If the world knew the truth, Jon wouldn't be able to marry me to Littlefinger at all… He's half Targaryen, and he's a bastard. The other Lords would remove him and strip him of all titles. They might even take his head and proclaim him a liar and traitor, like Jon fears. Then who would be the true ruler of Winterfell? Would it go to Bran? Or me?_

Sansa knows she is entertaining a fairytale… She can't do something like that… She couldn't betray Jon… Both her brothers would despise her. The rest of the North would call her a liar. And more than that, Jon _is_ her brother. _That's what I told him, that I didn't care what his blood was. That he could trust me to keep his secrets safe. I would never betray him, I couldn't do it…_

 _Even though he betrayed me?_


	41. Arya VI

Arya

DOWN WITH THE MAD QUEEN! is written in blood on the side of a market stall one morning as Lannister guards patrol through Flea Bottom. At first they only spot one, but as they continue their rounds, more and more begin to crop up. It is written all over on the sides of walls, signposts, stairways, bridges, and even the roads themselves. The blood is dry, yet it takes the guards a while to figure out that whoever these criminals are had written the messages overnight while the city slept. More and more through every district in King's Landing, the Rebellion's message spreads. At the end of the day the Lord Commander of the Gold Cloaks realizes that several Lannister guardsmen are missing. The Queen is notified at last, and a man-hunt for the guards quickly takes place. The sun is falling the next day by the time they find them. All three of their bodies are hung up by chains in the rubble of the Sept. Underneath them, the head of Baelor's statue has a message written in blood across his forehead, except this message is different from others.

It reads: THE IRON BULL WILL GIVE YOU THE MAD QUEEN'S HEAD. The three guardsmen, Rynold, Harwick, and Thod have large holes carved out in their stomachs so that the Commander of the Gold Cloaks can see straight through them to the other side. Their entrails drape down, caressing Baelor's cheeks. Their faces bear wild terror, mouths agape, eyes left wide open and lifeless… From a distance, Arya admires her work. She is high above the city in one of the bell towers that normally warns of invading ships. From here she can see it all. From here no one can catch her. Arya does what she was trained to do across the sea. She hunkers down, keeps her eyes open, and waits for the sun to finishing going to sleep.

Once darkness covers King's Landing, Arya climbs down from her hiding spot, remembering how Bran was always been the better climber than her—but then she was the better fighter. Those three idiot guards weren't much of a challenge. Harwick she got while he was raping, slicing his neck while wearing the face of old man Yoren so that the woman he was with would not see her true face. Thod she stabbed while he was pissing through someone's window. Rynold had actually seen her coming before she could get to him, but in the presence of a young boy no guard will think to draw their sword in time. Arya pierced him through the chin. After that it was only a matter of getting Gendry to help her string the bodies up and take their blood around the city in buckets while some of his bed stood watch. Arya must've written DOWN WITH THE MAD QUEEN three hundred times during the night. Tomorrow night was the second part of the plan.

She waits in the alley near the rubble of the Sept, watching as Lannister guards come and go on patrol holding torches. No one ever catches her. When Gendry shows up, dressed in his armor and bull helm, he takes out a bucket of blood and begins to write a new message underneath the old one on Baelor's face. Arya keeps her eyes out, knowing that if Cersei is smart, she will have her Little Birds watching this spot all night. She waits, able to see clearer in the darkness than she used to. Every shadow has hidden details that one without her experience wouldn't see, and as Arya's eyes scan her surroundings they come upon a young child's head peeking around the edge of a house. It is gone almost as quickly as she spots it, and Arya knows she has to be quick—so she bolts, running head on for the house and shouting, "IRON BULL!" to warn Gendry the plan is a success and to flee right away.

"Almost done!" Gendry calls back, in the middle of his blood work. Arya rolls her eyes and skids around the corner where she'd seen the child. At first the street is pitch black… then all the shadows seem to lift and thirty yards ahead there's movement.

Arya runs as fast as she can after the boy, thinking of how obvious it is in hindsight that the Little Birds are just children. She makes sure to keep her distance so that he doesn't notice her, even though he probably heard her shout. Whenever he turns a corner, Arya's heart leaps and she thinks it will be the last time she sees the boy and her chance was be ruined… But then she spots him again, sprinting through the shadows a street ahead, and Arya's confidence restores itself.

Finally they arrive at the Red Keep. Arya watches as the little boy runs around the back of the castle near the cliff's edge and disappears inside a small hole in the ground beside the high, crimson walls. _So this is how they get in and out unnoticed._ It's a sewage grate, the little boy is going through the tunnels underneath to get inside. By the time Arya reaches the grate and peers down into the darkness, the child is gone.

 _I have to go in_ , she decides, lifting the grate and just barely managing to squeeze through. She slides down a few feet before landing in thick, muddy water that reeks of manure. Up ahead the sound of the boy's splashing footsteps echo off the brick walls. Arya follows the sound, her eyes adjusting again to her surroundings; and in order to find her way out again, she picks up pieces of dung and spreads it across every wall she passes. The tunnel breaks off and split into new paths, some that lead deeper into the earth while others seem to go nowhere. _I played in these tunnels when I was just a girl and my father was Hand of the King. I remember finding gigantic dragon skulls… and hearing two men whisper about a war with more than just two sides._ Arya listens carefully whenever she comes to a fork in her path. The boy is no longer running. She slows down so her own steps don't reach his ears. After ten minutes of this, Arya finally catches up with him and watches the Little Bird leave through a door and ascend a spiraling staircase of stone. Prowling like a cat and crawling to the top, Arya peeks into a room illuminated by torchlight.

An old man stands in the center, hunched over to speak with the child she'd followed here. "Are you sure? A bull's helmet?"

"Yes, m'lord." Whispers the boy, his eyes on Qyburn's pockets.

"And he was writing more on the statue… _Curious_. It seems this rebellion grows braver by the day. Good work as always, my friend. Here." He hands the child something orange and round. Arya watches as the little boy lustfully bites into it, juice spilling down his lips. _He rewards them with food_ , Arya realizes, glaring at the Hand of the Queen with one hand clutching Needle's hilt. The Hand turns and walks with the child up another flight of steps and disappears through a door that locks behind them.

Arya traces her shit-trail back through the tunnels. Once she is in fresh air again, Arya removes her mask, bends over, and throws up over the side of the cliffs into Blackwater Bay. Wiping her mouth off, she turns her eyes upon the giant red castle beside her. _Soon_ , she thinks to herself. _Soon…_


	42. Theon II

Theon

Watching the three dragons fly overhead freezes Theon in awe at their magnificence. Never in his life did he think he would lay eyes on such divine beasts. As a child he read about dragons but always thought the Kraken was a more fearsome, formidable monster. Standing here now, Theon realizes he's been wrong all his life. Seeing a dragon is like seeing God, and there are three of them… The dark green one circles overhead, higher than the others, scanning the horizons, while the lighter beige one dives down below the water's surface, splashing nearby ships with waves, before bursting back up with a jaw full of squirming fish. Then there is the black one, Drogon. It weaves between every ship, roaring ferociously, as if daring them to attack it. Drogon is the largest and most fearsome of the dragons, and Theon would give anything for a chance just to touch his dark scales like the Imp did earlier.

"They're amazing, aren't they?" A feminine voice says behind him. Theon finds Varys approaching him and tenses. The fat, bald man is also admiring the dragons. He wears a golden, silk robe that hides most of his body. Even the hands under his sleeves are tucked away under the folds of his clothing. Theon heard stories of the Spider from King's Landing, but had never met the man himself.

Theon nods, "Aye. They are amazing."

"Greetings, Theon Greyjoy. I don't believe we've had the pleasure."

"You're Varys."

"Glad we've both heard of each other." Varys smiles, "As a Greyjoy, how does our fleet compare to the ones you've seen on the Iron Islands?"

Theon laughs, "I've never seen a fleet come anywhere near the size of this one. We have nearly a thousand ships. I'd say it's the largest fleet the world has ever seen… My uncles would shit their knickers if they saw us approaching."

"It's true. Not even Aegon the Conqueror had this many ships. I pray our forces make it to Westeros without any casualties. We've managed to avoid the storms, but I fear the closer we get the colder the winds are and the chances of running into obstacles grows." Varys sighs, and Theon finds that he doesn't mind this strange man's company for some reason. _It's because you both don't have cocks, Reek._

The Spider is right. In winter, ice bergs would form in the ocean and once, long ago, the Narrow Sea nearly froze over completely making ship-travel impossible. Yet for now the waters are blue as crystal and the skies are clear. "I have faith we'll make it." Is all Theon says.

"Your faith is reassuring." Varys says, joining him at his side by the railing. "Is your faith in our Queen just as strong?"

"I will live and die for Daenerys Targaryen and it would be an honor." Theon says, unabashed. Varys looks impressed with him. "What about you?" Theon asks.

"I served a Targaryen long ago. You were just a boy then, so you wouldn't remember the terror the Mad King spread across his country. But I remember. When he died I lost faith in Targaryens, and served King Robert. Then he died… and the Lannisters took over. The Mad Queen Cersei is just as dangerous as the Mad King was, if not more so. When I saw the Kingdom falling around me I fled, and found out Daenerys Stormborn had seized control in the east. She gave me hope just as she gives you hope."

"Aye, she gives me hope. Just as long as I see my uncle Euron pay for murdering my father." Theon smiles, a dark look crossing over his eyes that Varys notices. Gazing out at the open water to the east, something catches Theon's eye that makes his smile falter.

Hundreds of sails are appearing one by one… sails bearing the sigil of the Kraken.

Theon's heart skips a beat. _Yara was right_. _One of our uncles is chasing us, and judging from his giant war galley that heads the fleet, I can guess which one it is._ Theon turns around and roars at the Ironborn men on board his sister's ship to prepare for battle while Varys swiftly withdraws himself to warn the Queen.


	43. Tyrion II

Tyrion

When Tyrion is informed of the approaching army of Ironborn ships at their rear, he carefully sets down his cup of wine and follows Greyworm out onto the deck. Stumbling as he walks, Greyworm assumes it is because of _The Red Wind's_ rocking. In reality Tyrion is drunk, yet he knows better than to let Greyworm or anyone else in on this little secret right now.

"Where is Daenerys?" Tyrion asks the Commander of the Unsullied, leaning over the railing of _The Red Wind_ and spying the giant ship known as _The Iron Victory_ approaching ahead of the rest of its fleet. The squid-like tentacles that surrounded the ship's bow is frightening indeed, though Tyrion can't help but admire the artistry of it. It boasts a similar ego to their own flagship's bow—the carefully crafted golden dragon head made by Meereen's best smiths.

To answer his Hand's question, Greyworm points up into the sky.

Wings outstretched and catching air, Drogon glides down to _The Red Wind_. Riding along his back is the silver haired Queen, a look of impatient fury on her face. Tyrion and Greyworm back away as the massive dragon lands aboard Dany's ship and roars into the sky. _The Dragon is angry,_ Tyrion doesn't need a book to tell him this either. Drogon is watching _The Iron Victory's_ approach and hissing threats.

"It would appear they wish to talk." Dany says, "He's coming alone, leaving the rest of his fleet behind. It will be his undoing."

"How many ships did you see from up there?" Tyrion asks.

"About two hundred." Dany says, smiling confidently. Tyrion is weary of that look. He'd seen it in his sister all too often.

"Just because we outnumber them doesn't mean we should start a war at sea just yet, Daenerys. I advise caution. Listen to what he wants and weigh the risk for the reward." Tyrion tells her.

"That's why I have you." The Queen says, looking away from the enemy and down at her Hand. "You're coming with me."

Tyrion grunts with nervous laughter. Dany's expression is stone serious. "I'm not sure if I'm ready, Your Grace."

"You _are_ ready, remember?" Dany smiles and Drogon impetuously roars again. "Climb the wing, he won't knock you off, will you Drogon?"

"I do not share your confidence…" Tyrion hesitates, feeling all eyes on the ship watching him now. _This is it._ The moment he's been dreading has come early and he's drunk for it. Tyrion looks up at Greyworm and casts him a grim smile, saying, "Well my friend, it was good to know you. Take care of that girl, Missandei. Alright?"

Greyworm blinks and for a second Tyrion thinks he sees a trace of sadness in his eyes as the Lord Commander of the Unsullied nods and says, "I know we did not always agree on politics, but you are a good man, Lannister."

"Let us hope I stay a _living_ good man." Tyrion smiles as he reaches out and touches Drogon's leather wings.

The dragon reproaches, turning its attention on the dwarf attempting to climb him. Tyrion's heart leaps with fear as the inside of Drogon's throat starts to burn bright… but then Daenerys strokes the side of his neck, whispering a soothing word in Valyrian… Drogon closes his jaws, a low growl rumbling deep within his chest. _This is a bad idea,_ Tyrion gulps and continues, praying his hands are not gripping onto the wingspan too tightly. It's awkward at first. Tyrion is small and he fears the dragon's patience with him was running out. _This is a bad idea!_ Then Dany reaches down, as he balances on his hands and knees along Drogon's wing. Tyrion takes her hand and is pulled the rest of the way up onto the dragon's scaly back. Convinced every step will be his last, Tyrion Lannister settles in behind his Queen, feeling like a child again, his eyes wide as saucers. _This is definitely a very bad idea!_

"Grab my waist." Dany tells him over her shoulder. He does so, his legs barely managing to straddle the dragon's back _. I'm really doing this_ … _This is a mistake. I'm going to fall. I'm going to die like a fool and everyone will remember the day the dwarf fell off a dragon…_ His fingers dig into the folds of Dany's white gown, and just when he reconsiders asking permission to get down—Tyrion lurches face-first into her shoulder as Drogon takes flight.

His screams are swept away in a gust of wind that tugs on his cloths and blows back his long, curly hair. Tyrion buries his face in Dany's spine, refusing to open his eyes. He hears Dany laughing in-between Drogon's massive, flapping wings as well as his own heart hammering his ears.

Unable to help himself, Tyrion decides to open _one_ eye.

They're surrounded by clouds.

For the first time in his life, Tyrion soars over the heads of everyone below him, higher than any dwarf has ever been. Drogon steadies himself in the sky and Tyrion finds he no longer needs to grip onto Dany so tightly. He leans away from her and steels himself to look down over Drogon's side.

From up here, their fleet stretches on for miles in all directions, yet they're all the size of toys to him. From up here, the ocean is all that exists, no land in sight, just a world of water. Daenerys grins back at him and Tyrion explodes with laughter. Up here the threat of the Ironborn fleet approaching seems a trivial thing. Up here his father's ghost can't reach him. Every terrible thing Tyrion ever experienced is like a dream in the past. Up here, Tyrion is finally home.

That is until Drogon decides to swoop downward forcing Tyrion to cling onto his Queen with a shrill scream. His heart and his testicles jump inside him as they plummet, the water rushing up to meet them. His bottom lifts off Drogon's back, tumbling through the air, attached only by his struggling fingers to Dany's waist. _I'm going to die!_

Seconds later and it's over. Drogon spreads his wings as they come to an abrupt halt over the water's edge, landing aboard _The Iron Victory's_ bow.


	44. Daenerys III

Daenerys

Standing aboard the deck is a group of men, twenty or so in all, most of them mutated in one way or another. One man has bulging bug-like eyes, his hands are encased in steel orbs. There's a Dothraki with a long, braided beard and pony-tail, his copper skin layered in tattoos. Then there is a fat man who wears dirty pants and an unbuttoned tunic. Hundreds of scars cover his body and he seems to be the only one in the bunch unimpressed by the sight of a dragon aboard their ship. _The Iron Victory_ is truly massive, larger than even her _Red Wind_. The weight of a dragon hardly sinks it a few inches.

Dany and Tyrion remain mounted aboard Drogon's back, glaring down at them all while her dragon growls. She sees the Captain step out from his cabin and stroll towards them. A large man with dark hair and a lush beard, enamored in metal like a Knight, raises his arms and says in a gravely, booming voice, "Mother of Dragons! Welcome aboard! I was hoping you'd come to us!"

Drogon shifts his weight underneath her, heat escaping his clenched teeth. "Victarion Greyjoy, I presume?" Dany asks.

"You presume correctly, Your Grace!" Victarion bows before her in an overdramatic mocking way and the rest of his men guffaw with laughter. "I'm honored you've heard of me."

"I haven't heard much about you, actually." Says Tyrion from behind his Queen, peeking his head around her arm to make himself known. "Only that your cock isn't as big as your brothers so you try and compensate with your ships."

In response to this jape, one man bawls with laughter. Everyone turns, even Victarion, with surprise, and sees Strong Belwas striking his own belly with his big hands and laughing joyfully. Victarion scoffs and addresses Dany, "Whoever that monkey is on your shoulder should consider himself proud. This is the first time I've ever heard the fat man laugh."

"You speak to the Hand of the Queen, Greyjoy. Watch your words." Dany warns him.

"Never been very good at watching words." Victarion narrows his eyes with a contemptuous grin. One of his hands is around the hilt of his sword and the other clasps his Kraken-carved helm. "Prefer to watch people die."

"I assume that is why you've come here then, to watch your men burn?" Dany asks, deciding it's her turn to mock him.

"I have no intention of watching any man burn today, Dragon Queen." Victarion says and he beckons to one of his men. The bug-eyed one with the metal hands snickers and goes below deck. "Why don't you dismount that magnificent beast of yours and join me in my cabin? Make yourselves comfortable! You can even bring your monkey with you! Hahaha!"

Drogon leans in, his head mere feet away from the Captain, opens his mighty jaws, and roars in his face. Victarion stands his ground, fearless, and allows the slime and spit wash his face. Dany feels a stirring of unease. No man has ever faced down her dragon with such bravery before.

"I think he likes me." Victarion says when Drogon is finished.

"I do not believe we will be joining you anywhere, Greyjoy." Tyrion says, "We are quite comfortable up here with you down there."

"Do you let your monkey do the talking for you?" Victarion asks Dany.

"I warned you once. I will not again." Dany tells him angrily, "Tell me what you want or I will burn you and your fleet into the sea!"

Just then the big-eyed mutant returns from below deck, and with him he brings two people. One is a woman dressed in red, and when he sees her, Tyrion gasps. The other is in chains, a black satchel around his head. He is naked except for his torn apart leggings… and his left arm is black as though burned in a terrible fire; deep, red cracks run up and down the length of his destroyed skin. Victarion grabs the man by the back of his masked head and yanks him to his side. The man has his hands tied behind his back and his feet chained together, so he nearly falls from the harassment. Dany realizes who it is before Victarion removes the sack, and fear takes root inside of her heart. _No, please don't be…_

Jorah Mormont looks guiltily up at her as though he somehow caused this catastrophe.

"Shit." Tyrion mutters behind her, and Dany's feelings reflect his statement. This is perhaps the one man in the world Dany didn't want to see under that satchel.

"Daenerys Targaryen!" Victarion shouts over the roaring ocean, "I propose a marriage between us! Join me in matrimony and we can rule The Seven Kingdoms _together_! Be my wife, and I will lead the charge into Blackwater Bay myself and sack the city for you! Marry me and I will kill my brother Euron for you, and give the Iron Islands to our children! I have two hundred ships and over 4000 hardened men from across the world!" At the end of his speech, Victarion removes a dagger and holds it against Jorah's throat. "Or you can burn us down and kill your man. I wonder if he'd die from the fire or the blood loss first."

 _I don't know what to do…_ Anger and rage bubbles inside her. She wants nothing more than to say " _Dracarys_ " and be done with this… But Jorah… He was there for her since the beginning. He was, and still is, her most loyal subject… _He loves me. Truly, honestly, loves me and now… How did this happen?!_

"Come down and join us! Please! No one will harm you with your dragon watching." Victarion sneers. "We can perform the wedding right here if you'd like! Out on the open sea! What a beautiful thing, _eh boys_?!" The rest of his mutant men all cackle with laughter.

"Dany," Tyrion whispers behind her while they laugh, "I know he is important to you, but…"

"I can't." She says quietly so only Tyrion hears, fighting back tears, "I just can't."

"You have to. There is no way you can marry this man and expect to be taken seriously as Queen. He is a pirate, a scoundrel, and a criminal, but above all else he came here and tried to force you to marry him. If you agree, you will never be taken seriously again, even with dragons the best you could hope for would be ruling through fear, and then you're no better than Cersei. A man like this is a disaster for us."

 _Khaleesi…_ Jorah's voice whispers in her memories.

Drogon stirs restlessly underneath her, swaying his head back and forth like a serpent, hawkishly watching the men beneath him. His impatience goads her to make a decision quickly… Yet she can't find the words. How can she do it? Jorah, who was so faithful and loved her more than any other…

"May I point out the giant dragon in the room and just say you are putting your hands on a man with Greyscale." Tyrion tells Victarion and she is thankful for the dwarf buying her time.

"I have cured his arm of all infection." Speaks the woman in red, joining Victarion at his side. She is looking up at Daenerys as though they are long-lost lovers. "He no longer poses a threat to us."

 _He's been cured?_ She eyes his arm and notices the deep cracks from before are still there, only now they pulse red. "I-I don't understand." She says, her voice cracking like a scared child's. _He doesn't look cured at all…_

"I said the same thing." Victarion chuckles, "The Red Witch's magic is something to behold though! Go on, tell her, Kinvara. Tell her how you healed his arm. Hahahaha!" More laughter from his men makes Drogon's growl deepen with annoyance.

"I would rather know why you stand before your Queen, High Priestess Kinvara, without shame for this clear betrayal." Tyrion says, frowning. "Last time I recall, we paid you to help us."

"I am helping you, Lord Lannister." Kinvara responds with a relaxed expression, continuing to stride over by _The Iron Victory's_ railing, her hands folded together over her stomach.

"Lannister?!" Victarion exclaims, "Gods be damned, you're The Mad Queen's Imp?!"

Drogon bellows loudly in their faces again, and Tyrion smiles. He likes to think that the dragon is standing up for him. "Forgive me, My Lady but I fail to see how you are helping by handing us this barbarian, or by cleansing Jorah's infection."

"Big words for such a little monkey." Mocks Victarion loudly, entertaining the rest of his crew as was his wont. "Dragon Queen, I grow bored hearing your pet speak. Will you accept my proposal or is today the day your lover dies?"

"I was never her lover." Jorah mutters, spiting onto the deck a mixture of saliva and blood.

Victarion's dagger digs deeper into Jorah's neck, drawing a small trail of blood. "I'll make sure to let you know what it's like." Victarion growls in his ear, grinning up at the Mother of Dragons. "I'll share every detail with you and my brother. Look at how beautiful she is, after-all. I'll be the envy of every man in The Seven Kingdoms."

Jorah appears more tired than Dany has ever seen him before. She wants to reach out and take him—to fly away and watch the Greyjoys burn… Daenerys closes her eyes, knowing her decision, and when she opens them again all the fragility and insecurity in her voice from before is gone, replaced with the cold demeanor she shows all who stand in her way. "Victarion, you've made the last mistake of your life."

"Have I?" Victarion's confidence wanes in his tone, "Then I suppose I should just kill him then."

"Your body will burn by the time you finish drawing that blade across his throat, so unless you wish to prolong your life I suggest you wait." Dany's confidence swells with every word, though in her heart she hates herself. "Jorah Mormont, you have served me faithfully and I will honor your memory for the rest of my days… Your death today will be a sacrifice that every man, woman, and child in Westeros will know. Thank you… for everything, Jorah..."

To her numb surprise, Jorah only smiles with peaceful relief up at her and says, "I couldn't ask for more, Daenerys."

Victarion's hand trembles around the dagger at Jorah's throat. "You wouldn't dare attack us with your man in the way!" He spits but the terror on his face grows as Drogon lurches his head back, a fiery, bright glow building inside his throat. The Captain's men all back away, their laughter turning to ash in their mouths. Victarion rounds his hideous glare on Kinvara, " _Red Woman!_ You said he was the key! You said this would work! _I believed you!_ "

Kinvara smiles serenely at Victarion, yet her eyes are cold.

 _I'm sorry, my old friend… my love…_ Daenerys cries, " _Dracarys_ _!_ "

When Drogon releases the ball of flames upon Victarion and Jorah, something else happens that Dany glimpses before the roaring fire engulfs them. _My eyes must have deceived me_ … As soon as the command escaped her lips, Jorah's left arm exploded in a burst of wild, red fire that consumed his body from head to foot. Dany quickly dismisses this—it was only Drogon's fire. It _had_ to have been.

Victarion Greyjoy screams as Drogon's flames devour his body, melting his armor to his skin. He stumbles away from the burning pillar that was Jorah Mormont, howling in agony, charging with his fingers outstretched for High Priestess Kinvara. She waits until he is almost within reach… before stepping aside. Victarion Greyjoy plummets straight over the edge of his ship and into the ocean, his screams silenced by the water's endless depths.

The mutant men are fleeing from the bow of _The Iron Victory_ in terror, all except for the one named Strong Belwas, who laughs and points when the Ironborn Captain falls. Dany watches as the flames settle, waiting for Jorah's burned corpse to appear…

Jorah Mormont stands naked amidst the flames, his muscles shining in the firelight. He is unburnt, standing between the roaring, red fires quickly spreading across the giant galley in every direction. _Impossible_ … _How?_ Jorah appears equally surprised. His arms are no longer chained together, nor are his legs. The metal melted away… Steam was billowing around Jorah's left arm, a gentle flame flickering in the palm of his hand…

Daenerys and Jorah meet each other's gaze… and after a moment, they both smile and nod.

Jorah turns around, lifts his arm, and aims his new, fiery black hand at the man known as Ratfly, who tries to flee below deck, shoving aside fellow crew-mates in his way. " _Dracarys!_ " Jorah shouts and a stream of flames explodes like dragon-fire from his hand, following Ratfly all the way inside _The Iron Victory's_ center. The result is an eruption of flames and screams that travels through the galley's inner structure, incinerating everyone inside. The rest of the crew above-deck are shrieking in terror, hollering to abandon the ship as Jorah raises his hand again and aims for the Dothraki and the disfigured Ex-Second Son who decide to charge him down together. _"Dracarys!"_ Jorah roars and his arm ignites once again. Both his targets scream and run headlong into the dancing flames before their legs can stop their momentum, disappearing behind a wall of orange and red heat.

Daenerys can't believe it. _What magic is this?_ She thinks to ask Tyrion, yet she cannot remove her eyes from Jorah as he slowly walks over to Strong Belwas next. The large, round man has a bold grin on his doughy face. Jorah asks, "Do you wish to burn with the rest of these men or would you like to join my Queen and her Dragons on her conquest instead?" As the invading flames surround them and overtake the sails of the ship, Strong Belwas jiggles with laughter. Jorah scowls, "What's wrong with you, man?"

"He can't speak." Kinvara says, approaching them. "He is a mute. But he likes our Queen a lot, and her dragons, but most of all he likes the talking monkey."

"I can _hear_ you!" Tyrion yells from Drogon's back.

Daenerys dismounts with Tyrion and approaches Jorah aboard the Iron Victory's burning deck. The fire in his hand swells as she draws near. All are silent, watching them stand face to face…

"Khaleesi… _My Queen_." Jorah whispers to her in the same weathered voice she recognizes from all those years ago, when they first met. He bows his head and crosses his blackened arm across his chest, the fire in his palm dissipating. When he lifts his face back up, Dany takes his rough, scratchy cheeks in her hands and kisses him.

Soaring over the sea again, Drogon releases a mighty roar as he flies Dany and Tyrion away on his back. Jorah, Kinvara, and Strong Belwas board a life-boat yet untouched by the fire and sail for _The Red Wind_. Dany watches as _The Iron Victory_ groans, sinking beneath the waters; a column of smoke rising from its debris as what's left of its crew swim eastward where the rest of Victarion's fleet was stationed. They are picking up speed, making way for her fleet, war drums thundering as the pirates aboard scream, united for vengeance.

 _Let them come._ Daenerys smirks, the wind whipping her long, white hair across her face. _I will burn them all._


	45. Bran V

Bran

"Lord Brandon Stark, it is an immense relief to see you alive and well." Announces Lord Glover, standing in the center of the Grey Hall while his men all cheer at their table. "I've pledged myself to your brother, and I wish to pledge myself to you! On my honor as a Glover and your father's friend, you have my allegiance from this day until my last day!"

"Thank you, Lord Glover." says Bran and the last of Jon's Bannermen to pledge themselves to him sits down at the war table. Lords Manderly and Cerwyn had done the same, as did Lady Mormont. When the Little Bear gave her pledge, she did so with loud confidence that intimidates Bran a little; though when she smiles and winks at the end, Bran flushes and notices Meera glowering at the young girl.

From the middle of the high table, Jon looks at each of his Bannermen and asks them, "How many men have you all been able to send to The Wall?"

"We managed to round up fifty men, most of them deserters, Your Grace." Answers Lord Manderly.

"We had twenty we could spare." Says Lord Glover.

"I'm sorry, Your Grace, but I could only find five." Says Lord Cerwyn apologetically, "Not many criminals left that weren't flayed alive by the Boltons."

"Better than what we got," says Lady Mormont, "There was one good man on Bear Island who volunteered. Our dungeons are still empty, which is normally a good thing."

 _So less than a hundred,_ Jon calculates. "Lord Baelish, what about the Vale?"

"At your request, Your Grace, Lord Arryn sends 5,000 Knights to defend The Wall." Lord Baelish declares with an immodest smile. The other Lords, including Jon, Sansa, Bran, and Meera all stare at first. Some glare at Littlefinger with disbelief written all over their faces like Lady Mormont and Sansa while others appear impressed. Jon is in the latter.

"The North thanks you, Lord Baelish." Jon says, "I am in Lord Arynn's debt once again, it seems."

"This one comes on behalf of the King's request, Your Grace. Lord Arryn would not have approved if I had not counseled him on the importance of defending the North." When Jon had told Bran not to trust Littlefinger, Bran didn't quite understand. Even now, he didn't get it. Lord Baelish was nothing but helpful so far, and hearing that so many Knights are heading north is a giant relief in his heart. "There is a… slight issue, Your Grace. The Wildlings…" Littlefinger frowns, "The Wildlings all across the north have taken refuge in other people's homes against their will. When my Knights arrive to set things right, most fight back."

"I will speak to Tormund about it." Jon swears, "We must work together, all of us, with the Free Folk as well, if we're to survive through the long night. I speak to all of you now; tell your people that if the Free Folk come knocking at their door to welcome them in with open arms, and I will tell Tormund to make sure his people offer to work for shelter and food."

There are numerous grumbles among Lords Manderly, Glover, and Cerwyn as well as many of the other Northern Lords sitting below the high table in the hall. Bran knows there is still tension running between the Lords and the Wildlings, and can understand why they might have a hard time adjusting. When all of the Lords shuffle out, Littlefinger is the last to leave, and says, "See you all at the wedding." with a wide smirk. Sansa is clearly uncomfortable, though for the first time since he's been back, Bran notices her eyes are dry…

"He's lying." Sansa says to them as soon as the doors to the great hall close, "Littlefinger wouldn't send that many men to The Wall, he knows its suicide."

Jon sounds tired as he replies, "You're saying that because you hate him."

"No, I'm saying it because it's true."

"I'll believe it when I hear from the Lord Commander how many men arrived within the fortnight. Can we put it to bed? I don't want to argue anymore."

"What will you do if Cersei decides to bring her armies north and surround us?" Sansa goes on, changing the subject.

Jon laughs, "I wish the best of luck to them. Winter is here. They'll die marching through the snows before they ever make it and when they do we can hold them off."

"For how long?" Sansa asks furiously, "How long can we survive in this castle with so many northerners and wildlings flocking here for shelter from winter?"

"Three months…"

Silence follows these words. "What do you mean _three months_?" Bran asks after the shock registers.

"With so many people to feed our supplies have run low." Jon says, "All the more reason we need these alliances in the south with Cersei and the Ironborn to work out."

"Do any of the others know?" Bran asks.

"No. But every single one of them is worse off than us. All of the smaller houses are relying on the larger ones to support them, and the larger houses are relying on Winterfell to support their support… Before long we might be sheltering a lot more people in Winterfell…" It's obvious Jon isn't happy about this, and Bran can't help but feel bad for his older brother. Sansa, however, can't stop glaring at Jon as he says, "In three months the north will starve and freeze to death unless we can work out an arrangement with the south. I know you don't approve, Sansa… But we can't battle amongst ourselves anymore."


	46. Brienne III

Brienne

The pit reeks of shit, sweat, and blood.

Brienne sits in it, dressed in tattered small-clothes that exposes more of her skin than she appreciates, though being covered in mud constantly helps make her feel less on display. Her right arm is wrapped in bandages from the elbow to her wrist. It stinks and burns with infection, keeping her awake most nights. It's the only wound she's obtained so far in the Crannogmen's Mud Games.

Every day, in order to earn her right to eat, she is pulled out from the pit by five or six green-skinned, hairy men and thrown into a very different pit, inside Greywater Watch itself. The first time Brienne set eyes on the high tower walls she was amazed. _How can such a wonder be hidden from the world out here?_ In the center of the keep is the largest of the towers. Moss and fungi drape across it, covering the brick foundation with nature's green camouflage. The pit inside where they play their Mud Games is much wider and deeper than the one they keep her in; The Crannogmen's very own arena. The only way out was to somehow make it back up the muddy walls without slipping back down. She's tried but even at her towering height, Brienne cannot make it back up without the help of the Crannogmen, who are there to beat her into submission if she fights back. This pit was far worse than the one she now calls home. In this pit, hundreds of men and women gather to watch Brienne fight a lizard-lion with her bare hands.

The first time they make her fight one, Brienne had never laid eyes on such a creature. She's heard tales of unsuspecting men wandering into their swamps and being eaten, so not many can say what one looks like. Brienne can. The reptilian is the size of a full grown direwolf, its scales dark green and black, its head as long as its tail. The Crannogmen tame broods of them in pens and when they release one it goes on a rampage, snapping its massive jaws at anyone foolish enough to get their hands too close while they maneuver it into the mud pit using long sticks with rope loops on the ends. Once they were finished, the Crannogmen flee up top to watch the battle commence, though unlike normal crowds, the Crannogmen don't cheer or make any sound at all while they survey the fight. Their silence emphasizes the lizard-lion's furious growl when it sets its eyes on Brienne and charges for her on four stumpy legs.

In her first fight she nearly loses her arm when she tries to wrestle the lizard-lion into the mud and get on top of it. During its wild, hungry snapping, the monster's jaws slashes her forearm open. Since then Brienne had come up with a new way to defeat them. Whenever one came after her, Brienne would grab it by its mandibles, cutting her fingers between its razor-sharp teeth as a necessary sacrifice. Unable to bite through Brienne's sheer strength, she would steer it around until she could yank down hard enough to break its neck. At first Brienne hoped winning in the pit would earn her right to freedom. She was sadly mistaken when they pull her up only to knock her over the head and throw her back down into the cramped little pit she now calls home.

Sometimes Brienne hears wolves howling up at the moon on nights like this one. It was comforting to hear them, for it reminds her of Sansa and her duty to return to her someday. _I will get out of here, somehow. I swear it, My Lady._

A flickering red light breaks the darkness and she looks up to see The Red Woman standing above her pit holding a flaming torch. "Lady Brienne… it breaks my heart to see you this way."

"I'm sure it does." Brienne grimaces, her voice raw in her throat, "What brings you to my cell?"

"I wanted to see you." Melisandre answers plainly, no remorse in her tone at all, "You once threatened me at Castle Black. Do you remember?"

"I should have struck you down instead of threaten." mutters Brienne.

"Perhaps you're right. You wouldn't be here if you had." The Red Woman smiles, "Or perhaps you would. The Lord of Light's will touches us all whether we want it to or not."

"Does Howland Reed believe in your God?" Brienne asks curiously, "Or is he just using you for your pretty face?"

"Howland Reed has no need for my pretty face, at least not as far as he's concerned. He does, however, believe in the Lord of Light's power, and knows that our Lord is our only hope against The White Walkers. That's all that matters."

"What about Jon Snow? How could you betray him like this?"

"Jon Snow exiled me and threatened to murder me if I returned." Melisandre frowns. "If he was the Lord's Chosen he would not have cast me out. I thought he was _The Prince that was Promised_ , just as I once thought Stannis was. I thought it was him because the Lord brought him back to life… but the Lord has brings back others as well. It makes no difference. If there is a _Prince that was Promised_ , Jon is not that Prince. I was wrong about him just as I was wrong about Stannis."

"So this is vengeance then? Is that it?"

"No. It's the Lord's blessing. There is another who has caught the Lord of Light's gaze, one who is ambitious and willing to believe. I must show him the way."

"Who are you talking about? Howland Reed?"

"No, My Lady. King's Blood is required to be _the Prince that was Promised_ , and Howland is no King."

 _Then who?_ Brienne wonders as Melisandre leaves her alone once more.


	47. Davos II

Davos

Around a hundred ships are docked along the coastline to the west. Down below Davos witnesses hundreds of Ironborn soldiers… if you can even call them _soldiers_. Some are hacking at trees, cutting them down and building ships out of the carved wood on the sand while others are burning and raping their way through fishing villages across the coast, their screams of madness echoing in the air all around him. Some trees are on fire and Davos suspects an accident had occurred, though no one seems concerned enough to remedy the mistake. Davos rides his horse down a winding dirt road toward the beach where the bulk of the Greyjoy forces are stationed in large military tents. Two guardsmen wearing steel plating bearing the sigil of the kraken stop him and command him to dismount. "I have urgent business here, on behalf of the King!" Davos tells them as he climbs off his steed.

"Which King, old man?" Growls the guard.

"The King in the North." Davos says proudly.

"King of the Iron Islands is the only King I care about. Get lost before we gut you." The growling guard threatens.

"It's important. Your King will want to hear what I have to offer him."

"Tell us your business first, or I will gut you after-all."

The other guard shakes his head and says, "Knock it off, Sevron. Look at 'em, how much 'arm can he do?"

"Fine but if this gets us in trouble, I'm telling the King this was your fault."

The two dimwitted guards lead Davos to the main tent pitched up beside the water. The sun was rising, giving the ocean a beautiful glimmer. The sea breeze is familiarly salty as ever; Davos did doesn't being a smuggler but he does miss traveling the open ocean and feeling the waves rock his boat. _When this is over, someday, I'd like to buy a boat and live out the rest of my days fishing…_ He thinks to himself as he turns his attention on the encampment ahead. Euron's tent is bigger than all the rest, of course. The kraken flag flutters overhead in the wind as he is led inside.

The King of the Iron Islands, Euron Greyjoy sits at the far end of the tent. A naked woman is bobbing her head up and down over his lap while another naked woman massages his shoulders, a look of anguish in her eyes. _Saltwives_ , Davos feels an awkward sting in his cheeks. "Forgive me, Your Grace. I can come back another time?"

"I would not let you enter my tent if I was not prepared." Calls the King with a laugh, "Come in! Come in! Don't mind the women, there's plenty to go around if you'd like one, friend, Hahaha!" Already Davos is repulsed by this man, but he doesn't let it show on his face.

Instead, Davos offers a friendly grin and says, "I'm honored, Your Grace. But I come here on important business on behalf of the King of the North, Jon Snow."

"The King in the North!" Euron barks with a laugh and a wolfish howl, grabbing the girl before him by her hair and thrusting his cock deeper and rougher down her throat, choking her against his groin, "What could the White Wolf want with me?"

 _Is this a means of intimidation?_ Davos frowns. "My King would have you stop your pillaging of the Neck and join forces in an alliance for the coming war. The Long Night comes, and the Dead come with it. White Walkers have awoken and mean to march on the North. If we are to survive, we must all band together and—"

"I'll be honest with you, I don't care." Euron says before Davos can finish his sell.

"My Lord, how can you not care?"

" _Your Grace_ , not _My Lord,_ remember? I'm a King!" Euron snaps as the girl with her mouth around his groin pushes against him to let her go but his hand keeps her firmly pressed where she is until her eyes roll up into her head. Davos can't tell if she passed out, or… "What is your name?" The King asks, drawing his attention back to him.

"I am Davos Seaworth, Your Grace." Davos answers, "I am also advisor to Jon Snow. He sent me here to plea for peace with you."

"A King who begs for peace is no King at all. A true King takes what is theirs by right of conquest. I say let the better man win." Euron smiles sadistically, finally releases the girl from his clutches. She collapses to the floor, her eyes still rolled, foam and saliva bubbling out from her lips. The impulse to help her almost takes Davos, but he resists. Something about the way Euron sits there with his cock wagging infuriates Davos. _He shows no respect to me or Jon, and if I try to help the girl he'll have me killed, or worse, I know it._

"Apparently you don't know the difference between begging and a generous offer." Davos says, "If you decide to march on Winterfell with your band of, what—2,000 men? Half of you would starve to death and the other would freeze to death before a single one of you penetrates those walls and even if you did, The North is 50,000 strong. You would not leave wanting from this arrangement. The Dreadfort is abandoned with the Boltons dead. The King of the North would give it to you as compensation as well as all its lands, its trees, if you swear fealty. You would have no need to _take_ anything except what you will already own if you agree."

"You're a learned man, Seaworth." Euron says with an air of someone impressed, "You speak well, you're smart, and you're not afraid to talk back to me. I respect that. Most of my men are too cowardly to tell me what they honestly think. However, I should warn you since I'm starting to like you, be careful what you say. I can have a temper."

"I take it that means you're willing to discuss this further?" Davos asks hopefully.

"Aye. Sit down. Have some ale. Tell me more about this Dreadfort. Let me assure you I have no intentions of attacking the North, at least not yet anyway. So perhaps we can work out an arrangement."

Davos is truly surprised. "You're attacking the north right now, Your Grace."

"I'm pillaging the Neck. One might say it's both north and south here and the only people who care are the frog-eating bog-dwellers."

"Those bog-dwellers belong to House Reed, if I am not mistaken?" Davos asks, and Euron nods, snapping at the girl massaging his shoulders to take the other's place by his knees. "House Reed is loyal to the Starks."

"Yet they did not heed the call when the King of the North battled the Bolton's Bastard. I wonder why that is." Euron smirks, "Perhaps you can ask him. He has sent me an invitation to join him at Greywater Watch. Like your King, he desires to make me an offer. Unlike my brothers, I am a more reasonable man and if given a good enough reason I will accept one of your terms."

 _He wants to hear out all his options before he decides._ Davos can respect this, though his distaste for Euron Greyjoy leaves him feeling sour. The girl sucking him seems determined to do a better job than her predecessor, and he can't blame her. Euron barely notices her as he scratches his chin and serves Davos a goblet of alcohol. "So about this Dreadfort?"

Davos tells him all about it. By the end of his speech, Euron is more focused on the saltwife around his cock than he is with Davos and his words.

The King sighs as Davos waits for a response to his pitch. "So this Dreadfort lies in the cold, far north from here, near the Narrow Sea… on opposite ends of the North from the Iron Islands. Tell me, how am I going to build a thousand ships on the mainland? Have no fear, Ser Davos, we are not enemies yet… My true enemy awaits me across the sea. Have you heard of Daenerys Targaryen and her three dragons?"

"Aye, I've heard the rumors but I believe what my eyes tell me more than my ears."

"As any wise man should." Euron says, toasting him with a drink of his own. "I've traveled to many foreign lands but only when I investigated the Dragon Queen did I discover that for once the rumors were true. She is real, Davos Seaworth, and she is coming to Westeros to retake the throne that is her's by birthright. She will be my wife and I will ride a dragon across the lands and burn every enemy I have to ash. Then it won't matter how many men your King has holed up in Winterfell."

"You speak of wild imaginations, Your Grace. If what you say is true then how exactly do you plan on marrying a woman like that?" Davos asks, humoring him.

"No woman's ever resisted _this_ cock!" Euron laughs, giving the saltwife's head a rocky wiggle.

Davos sighs, "I must admit I am disappointed. I thought you'd have a better plan than that."

"Who says I don't?" Euron smirks, "You're still my enemy. Why would I tell you all my secrets?"

Still, Davos doesn't believe him. He'd summed up Euron within the first minute of meeting him. This man was sex-crazed, arrogantly ambitious, and genuinely insane. Jon will never allow this man to rape and pillage through the north. _If we didn't need his men for the battle to come, I'd say bugger to all of this, but..._ Davos takes a drink with a grimace, watching and waiting for the girl on the floor to show any signs of life... _Stannis wouldn't put up with a man like this, that's for sure. He wouldn't care what the ultimate consequences were... or would he?_ Davos realized he didn't know Stannis as well as he thought he did. The man he respected once would never have burned his own daughter alive... _It wasn't Stannis alone. It was the Red Woman's influence over him that killed Shireen..._ In spite of Stannis, Davos trusts Jon, and decides he will put up with Euron… for as long as he can.


	48. Cersei IV

Cersei

A knock at the door informs Cersei that her Hand has arrived. Qyburn enters and finds his Queen with her back to him, standing over the large table that once belonged to the King's council. Tyrion always mocked how lovely this table was.

"My Queen."

"What is it, Qyburn?" Cersei asks quietly, not looking up.

"My little birds found another message from the rebellion. This one was written under the previous one on Baelor's head."

"What did it say this time?"

"It read _soon the Bull will bring down the Lion_ , and underneath that it read: _Come join the Iron Bull's Army._ It appears he's recruiting the Commonfolk, Your Grace."

Cersei's tolerance for this rebellion was growing thin. After three of her guards were found dead and strung up, Cersei took it as a slight toward her; not because they were her guards but because whoever killed them, hung them near the same place Cersei had hung Septa Unella. It was as translucent as insults came. "I want this Iron Bull found and brought to me today, Qyburn." She growls under her breath.

"We have men searching the city and my little birds are everywhere, Your Grace. We'll find him."

Cersei turns around and reveals she is holding a longsword. It's beautifully crafted with a red ruby in a golden hilt. "Do you know what this is?" She asks him.

"No, Your Grace."

"Valyrian Steel. Joffrey named it 'Widow's Wale' the day he died. It was a gift from my father, forged from Eddard Stark's own sword. A very fine thing. Very rare." Cersei smiles as she admires the sword's craftsmanship.

"I have heard of such swords, Your Grace. However smithing and swords was never of much interest to me in Oldtown."

"When Joffrey died it was passed to Tommen, though the boy never touched it. It's now been passed on to me…" Cersei removes the sword from its sheath, its black blade glimmering in the candlelight. _Widow's Wale fits,_ she thinks with a smirk, _I think I'll keep the name._

"Will you be fighting beside your men?" Qyburn asks sardonically. "It would be quite the sight to behold."

"No." Cersei sighs, putting the blade away, "But a Queen needs to prove she can fight her own battles all the same. When I find this Iron Bull I will execute him myself, I think." _Only then will they fear me._ "Tell me, have your little birds finished preparing the city's defenses?"

"Almost, Your Grace. There is quite a lot to manage but we're getting the work done, I'm told."

"Good." Cersei says, "I want King's Landing prepared for any northerners who are foolish enough to come here. If Dorne or Highgarden try to attack from the south, I want to know ahead of time as well. Any word from your little birds on the Queen of Thorns or Ellaria Sand?"

"Both have just sent their armies marching for us, but even combined they will not match us in numbers. It's good you changed your mind about sending our army with your brother north, or we might find ourselves defending a city without soldiers." Qyburn smirks.

"How long until The Tyrells and Martells arrive at our gates?" Cersei asks.

"Less than a fortnight, Your Grace. Time will tell the closer they get. Snows are slowing them down in the mountain passes. My Little Birds say it might even be a month."

"And how large is their army all-together?"

"Less than thirty thousand, Your Grace. It appears they have kept most of their forces behind to defend their cities instead of sending everything they have at us, or at least that's what my Little Birds guess. In truth there could be a lot more coming for us that we just don't see yet. Which is why I have taken it upon myself to call for allies—from all our Bannermen across the south. House Frey is the only one so far not to answer, but as of right now, our army stands at 60,000."

"Very good. And who do you suggest Commands this army in battle?"

"Lord Tarly has arrived in the capital this morning and is awaiting your audience in the throne room. I believe he is here to swear fealty. House Tarly was loyal to House Tyrell before… I would be cautious in approaching this man. He has a powerful army and might not be too happy about his allies being blown up, yet he answered my call all the same, and assures me of his loyalty to the Crown above all else. I believe he will make a fit Commander, Your Grace."

"I shall meet him soon." Cersei says.

Soon comes and she finds herself sitting once again on the Iron Throne. Its sharp barbs prick her skin every time she sat down. Qyburn gave her a cream for the cuts that plague her fingers and bottom, but this does not prevent her from slicing open a new gash every time she moves. _The Iron Throne doesn't like you_ , she hears Tyrion's voice mocking her.

Randyll Tarly walks up to steps, followed in tow by his wife and two children. He is dressed in his armor, bearing the sigil of a huntsman across his chest and shield. There's a sour look on his face, and when he bends the knee his eyes never leave the Queen's. _He's a shrewd man. Father always liked him._

"Your Grace, I, Randyll Tarly, come before you and swear fealty on my House's honor!" Lord Tarly's voice thunders in a deep, gravely echo across the hall. His wife, son, and daughter all bend the knee and lower their heads in respect as well. _The son is quite handsome_ , Cersei notices.

"Lord Randyll Tarly, you're a legend on the battlefield, I'm told." Cersei addresses him calmly. "Have you brought the resources my Hand asked for?"

"I have." Answers the old man grimly, "20,000 of my men will join the Lannisters in defending the capital."

"If it comes to that." Qyburn reminds him.

"I thank you for your loyalty to the crown, and offer you a place here in the Red Keep with your family. Lord Tarly, I would name you Commander of our armies on the battlefield and grant you a seat on the Queen's council."

"It would be an honor, Your Grace." Randyll says, his expression as stern as ever. His son glances over at her three remaining Queensguard with a curious expression that catches Cersei's eye.

"And what is your name, boy?" asks the Queen.

The boy blinks up at her. "Me? Dickon. Dickon Tarly, Your Grace."

"My son wishes for the chance to join your Kingsguard, Your Grace." Randyll says, glowering. "He is of age, a skilled warrior in combat, and faithful to the Crown." His narrow glare catches his son's eye, Dickon straightens up where he stands. "I forbid him to ask at first, because a Kingsguard are prohibited from having children or carrying on the Family name, and as Dickon is my _only_ son, I wish not to see the Tarly name extinguished. However, when word reached my ears that three of your Kingsguard—"

"It's Queensguard." Cersei corrects him, interrupting.

"Forgive me, Your Grace. When word reached my ears that three of your Queensguard had fallen in combat, I promised my son I would not interfere if you were to allow him the honor."

"Your sacrifice is greatly appreciated, Lord Tarly." Cersei smiles. "I will give young Dickon here a chance to prove himself in time."

"Forgive me, Lord Tarly, if I may…" Qyburn clears his throat, "But sources indicate that you have more than one son."

Randyll's lips thin and his brow grows heavy as he glares at the Hand of the Queen. "Your sources are not wrong, Lord Hand. I _had_ another son. He is no longer my son. He brought a Wildling into my home. After I promised to protect the Wildling and her babe against my better judgement, he decided to take them with him anyway. But more than any other slight, he stole my family's sword."

"So your son is dead to you because he stole… a sword?" Qyburn lifts an eyebrow.

"It wasn't just a sword, it was a Valyrian Steel Sword, My Lord Hand. One that was passed down throughout the Tarly bloodline for generations. It was to go to Dickon, but my jealous oaf of a son stole it from us… from me." Randyll rounds on his wife. "It was your fault for allowing him in again."

Cersei notices tears form in his wife's eyes. "You are more to blame for that boy's problems than anyone else."

The slap echoes across the Throne Room. Randyll's wife stumbles to her knees, half of her face red. Randyll's face is the same stone expression he always wears as he growls, "Watch your tongue, woman. We are before the Queen."

"It is quite alright." Cersei leans back in her throne, smiling. "You are dismissed, Lord Tarly."


	49. Sam III

Sam

Every time Sam opens a new book, he has high hopes that this will be the one where he'll find the answers he seeks. Above him a beam of light reflecting off the many golden armillary spheres illuminates Sam's work space. He was given a large, mahogany table and free reign of any book in the library. The Archmaester said he would be back to help Sam study but he had other duties to attend to. That was four days prior, and Sam still hasn't seen the old, kindly man. So Sam set out alone, digging through ancient history books and reading about legendary battles from long ago; some Sam had heard of already and others he hadn't. The only relevant battle he could find was _The Battle for the Dawn._ It's the only recorded war against The White Walkers in all the books he can find, written by a Maester who admits in the beginning that he doesn't believe it truly happened. The book gives brief descriptions and musings as to what might've happened in the battle but the only facts, as far as Sam could discern, give little clues as to how men were able to defeat them—only that after it was done, they built The Wall to keep them out. _But how did they push them back? Why do none of the history books say how it happened? Or where they came from?_

Next Sam attempts to study up on Dragonglass. It's as he's climbing the chains to reach a book on the sixth shelf when a voice down below startles him.

"Sorry there, Tarly." laughs Archmaester Archybald. "Gave you a fright, did I?"

"Yes, you did." Sam smiles meekly, managing to grasp the book he was reaching for and climb back down. "Where've you been?"

"I'm old, Sam. Not as old as the rest of these codgers, mind you; just old enough to want to sit down and not get back up again for many an hour." Archybald scratches at his black beard, glancing at the book in Sam's hands. " _Inventories_? Curious... Fact checking something?"

"I'm researching where I can find dragonglass in The Seven Kingdoms." Sam says, "I've heard Dragonstone has a mine full of obsidian, but that's it as far as I know."

"Dragonglass. _Hmmmm_." The old man appears to ponder this, his beady eyes watching Sam flip through _Inventories_ to the chapter on Dragonstone. "Obsidian forged by dragon fire if I'm not mistaken. You claim you killed a White Walker with such an object?"

"I did." Sam nods, scrolling down the pages with his finger. "My brothers and I found dragonglass hidden on the Fist of the First Men. There was a bunch of them, daggers and arrowheads. There was a horn too, but it was cracked. Someone from the Watch wrapped them up in their black cloak and left it there for someone to find one day. Unfortunately, well…"

"Do you still have this dragonglass on you?"

"No. I gave it away to Bran Stark when they crossed The Wall. But I…

"What's that Sam? Didn't quite catch what you said."

"Erm, nothing." Sam didn't quite feel comfortable enough with Archmaester Archybald to tell him about Heartsbane, the Valyrian Steel sword he stole from his father. Before Sam left The Wall, Jon told him about how Longclaw, another Valyrian Steel sword, cut down a White Walker at Hardhome. Ever since, Sam's been certain that both Dragonglass and Valyrian Steel are vital to defeating the White Walkers… As for _why_ that is, Sam still isn't sure.

"Without proof, the other Maesters will find this suspicious when you tell them." Archie warns him.

"Why would I need to tell them anything?"

"If you wish to earn the first link in your chain, you'll have to provide evidence that you've learned a great deal in the area of study you've chosen. Just so happens _the higher mysteries_ you're studying is not the easiest link to obtain. Only four in recent years have ever managed to do this; I include myself on that list."

"I don't get it." Sam admits. "What do I have to prove to them?"

"Well, to put it bluntly, you have to outsmart the old fucks. Answer every question they give you and try and teach them something you learned."

"What did you do?" Sam asks innocently, trying to make it sound like an off-handed question.

Archie grins and barks, "I can't tell you that! _Hahaha!_ Nice try, though."

Sam sits back down in a defeated slump. The Archmaester is a curious fellow indeed, though just having someone to bounce his ideas off of helps from time to time. Gilly wasn't as educated and Sam had a hard time discussing politics of the world with her.

"If Dragonglass is forged from dragon fire then that means it's impossible to make more of it." Sam sighs, finding what he is looking for at last. "Shame really, according to this there's tons of it on Dragonstone. Obsidian is the natural rock found on the island. I guess the Targaryens lived there once. I wonder if they knew about its power to put down White Walkers or if they just thought it looked pretty—"

A booming, raspy cackle interrupts him. Sam spins around in his chair and lays eyes on a Maester approaching them, yet he is unlike any Maester Sam has ever seen; an unkempt, large man with a pot-belly that sticks out between his robes without shame. White, long strings of hair wisps out from his nose and ears, and his laughter reveals blue-stained teeth. He walks with a long, black staff that clinks every time he takes a step; and Sam notices it is made of Valyrian Steel. The man's laughter rises—then abruptly stops as he came upon them. " _Archie!_ "

" _Marwyn!_ " Archie rushes up and embraces the strange Maester. "Good to have you back, old friend!"

"Not as good to be back, I'm afraid." The pot-bellied man chuckles, "The open seas are a refreshing departure from this dour old tower. The Shadow Lands of Asshai is an amazing place, my friend. I implore you to travel with me next time—stretch those old bones of yours!"

"You've been to Asshai?!" Sam blurts out.

Marwyn turns his attention to Sam, studying him with wild, bulging eyes. "I have, boy. Tell me, what do you know about the Shadow Lands?"

"Not a lot. Nobody goes there for fear of monsters…" Sam says, remembering the legends. "Is it true what they say? Do dragons still live there? "

Marwyn's cackle booms and echoes all across the library. "I like your new student, Arch. What's his name?"

"Samwell Tarly. He wishes to study the higher mysteries much like yourself."

" _Really_ now? Well, Samwell Tarly, let me tell you." He leans in close, intimidating Sam, "I have seen things that would send you screaming back to your mother's breast; things even the vilest of individuals would consider repulsive. Golems prowl the volcanic plains, breathing fire and eating obsidian. A cult of Warlocks sacrifice every newborn girl to flying demons so that they might communicate with the Gods. As for Dragons, I'm sorry to say, there are none to be found in Asshai…" Marwyn's smile frightens Sam. "But I _have_ _seen_ three dragons, alive and well, in the city of Meereen. Daenerys Targaryen, have you heard of her?"

 _According to the rumors, she's the Dragon Queen across the Narrow Sea._ Sam remembers. "Wasn't she one of the Mad King's children that was smuggled away after Robert's Rebellion?"

"Oh yes. Her and her brother. Don't know what happened to him but Daenerys rules in Essos with her dragons. They have grown remarkably well, and it is my belief she means to conquer Westeros soon."

"Don't give too much credit to Marwyn, Sam." Archie mocks, "They call him Marwyn the Mage because he is the only Maester alive who thinks magic still exists."

"And you, my dear friend, are envious of my inane ability to tap into things you can't understand." Marwyn retorts, good humor gone from his eyes, his blue teeth giving Sam the creeps. _Does he really believe in magic and everything he says?_ _If Dragons really are real, then…_

"Maester Marwyn, can I ask you some questions?" Sam stands up.

"Please, Sam. Call me Marwyn the Mage. I'm more proud of that title than _Maester_."

"Sam, perhaps we should give Marwyn some time to settle in." Archie intervenes, and for some strange reason he is giving Sam a worried sort of look. "You have a lot of reading to do too."

"I can speak for myself, Arch, thank you." Marwyn waves his hand and beckons for Sam to follow him. "Come. Let us speak privately."

As Sam moves to follow him, Archmaester Archybald places a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Sam, whatever he says, don't let him give you anything."

Sam blinks, more confused than ever. "What? Why?"

"Just trust me, alright."

"But…"

"Hurry Sam!" Calls Marwyn the Mage as he waddles his way out of the library.

Sam doesn't understand. _Aren't they old friends?_ He follows the strange Maester up the spiraling staircase and after several minutes of tiresome walking, finds himself standing at the top of the tower in the room with the glass candle again. Marwyn the Mage huddles over it with his back to Sam as he approaches with caution.

"Why are we up here?" Sam asks.

"I wanted to work on something. Go ahead, boy. Ask your questions."

"Alright, um, first… How many dragons does Daenerys have?"

"Three." Marwyn answers, albeit absentmindedly. Sam hears the clinking of glass as the Maester pulls something out from his robes.

"When did you see them?"

"About a year ago. I had heard in my travels of the Mother of Dragons so I decided to see for myself. I, like many men, do not believe anything until my eyes have witnessed it. Always trust your eyes, Sam; never your ears, your nose, or even your own tongue. Just your eyes."

"Why do you think she's coming to conquer Westeros?"

"Why wouldn't she? She has dragons, an army, and experience ruling as a Queen now. Not only that, but she has the birthright to overthrow The Mad Queen. The people in King's Landing would support her. All she has to do is come and take the throne for herself. Though, if you're looking for evidence, all I can tell you is my eye never lies. Come, Sam. Let me show you what they see."

Gulping down his nerves, Sam steps up beside Marwyn and sees that he is holding a small vial filled with glowing, green liquid. "What is that?"

"Wildfire." Marwyn nonchalantly replies with a smirk.

Sam almost flees in terror. "What in the bloody hell do you have wildfire for?!"

"Do you know what wildfire is, young boy? Don't preach to me about its dangers. I've been handling this stuff since before you were born." Marwyn mutters with a dark look. "Wildfire in the wrong hands can be devastating, but in my hands we are safe, rest assured. Now watch. Don't look away. Don't blink."

He uncorks the vial and pours its green contents over the glass candle. It seeps into the rugged, black wick and seems to meld with it. "Wildfire is an ancient secret recipe made of Dragon's blood. Some of the last of the dragons to exist hundreds of years ago were sacrificed in order to create this sustenance. The Targaryens did their best to keep its recipe a secret, but every secret has its cracks."

"Where did you get it?"

"It isn't difficult to procure when the Hand of the Queen is your brother."

Another surprise. _This man is royalty?_ "Your brother is the Hand? Why aren't you with him?"

"We prefer to keep to ourselves. We help each other from time to time, but I have no interest in politics or power. Our ambitions differ in that regard." Marwyn reveals another flask, this one larger than the last. Inside is a blue liquid Sam doesn't recognize. As he unstoppers the bottle, Marwyn smiles wickedly. " _Shade of the Evening_."

"Isn't that the drug warlocks use?"

"It's more than a drug." Marwyn cackles, "I have friends among the warlocks who showed me its value." He tips it back and swallows half of the vial as if it was ale. When he pulls away, his lips are as blue as his teeth. "Would you like to partake, Sam? Join me in my vision and all of your questions will have answers, I guarantee."

"Oh no, no, I can't." Sam refuses, shaking his head and backing away smiling awkwardly.

"Are you quite sure?" Marwyn asks, his expression sagging with concern, "What are you afraid of?"

"Isn't that stuff… addicting?"

"Addiction is just another excuse for fools who can't help themselves." Marwyn snaps, "Did Arch tell you not to?"

"Well, yes."

"I assume Arch also said this candle can never be lit because magic doesn't exist?"

"Yes…" _But I want to believe._

"Well behold, this is no mere candle made of glass—it is made of Dragonglass, do you know what that means? No? Well… allow me to show you!" Marwyn raises his Valyrian Steel staff and touches its end to the candle, " _Dracarys_!" He hisses and the candle's wick ignites. A tall, flickering green flame brightens the room and threatens to sweep the ceiling. Sam falls onto his bottom, his eyes wide as saucers and his jaw unhinged as he watches the fire dance around Marwyn as though it was alive. Finally the flames settle and the candle flickers, its shimmering glass surface brilliantly green. Marwyn laughs maniacally, thrusting his staff into the air in triumph. "They all said I was _mad_! They all said it couldn't be done! _Hahaha_! Magic does exist, Samwell Tarly! See it with your own eyes!"

Sam got up in awe and slowly approaches the flame. It's radiant and beautiful in a way Sam has never seen fire before. "Drink with me, Sam, and you can see what I see in the flames," Marwyn the Mage whispers beside him, "Cast aside your fears and doubts. Through the fire we can see all we desire."

 _I can't. This isn't right…_ But Sam wants to see more. Marwyn had done what Sam, Archybald, and every other Maester thought was impossible. "You really are a wizard."

"You can be too, Sam." Marwyn hands him the Shade of the Evening and Sam receives it in trembling hands. _Could I find the way to defeat The White Walkers with this?_ He casts Marwyn an unsure glance, but the old man is already lost in the fire. Sam gulps, thinking of what Gilly would say if she knew. _You have a baby and you left us out here so you could drink with some crazy man?_ Then he imagines what Jon would say if Sam came back to him empty-handed… _You failed me, Sam. I never should've trusted you._

The Shade of the Evening smells of rotten flesh, and tastes of everything Sam could imagine tasting, and more. Swallowing it down, Sam almost immediately vomits it back up, but somehow manages to close his eyes and force himself to stomach it. It leaves a thick, honey-like residue in his mouth, gagging him. Marwyn smacks him on the back in congratulations.

Already Sam's head feels lighter, like he's drunk. His heart quickens painfully in his chest, and Sam thinks he's going to be sick anyway. The room begins to spin. Marwyn's face contorts and shape-shifts into that of a monstrous walrus with white hair spilling out of every hole in his head. Perplexed, All fear, all feeling, everything in Sam's head; none of it matters anymore. He felt like he could do anything. The green fire is inviting him in. Sam falls into it, mesmerized by its intricate patterns of movement.

Then the fire changes its shape, swells in size, opening like a window into another world. Sam is sucked inside, his world turning into a bright, green storm. Marwyn is laughing beside him. Sam didn't feel like laughing, too amazed by the beauty of this world to feel anything at all. Three dragons are flying in the flames overhead. Each one has a rider aboard, though Sam can't make out their faces. One of the dragons is different somehow, but the flickering, green flames don't give away what exactly it is—for he only catches the briefest of glimpses before all three dragons and their riders disappear over a wall of darkness Sam did not realize was there. The darkness was cold and terrifying, yet the dragons and their riders fly into it without fear. A woman's scream pierces Sam's ears as the darkness surrounds him. The green flames wash away the darkness, revealing none other than Jon Snow—standing side-by-side a woman with pure, white hair, smiling at one-another. Sam tries to call out to his friend, but suddenly the wildfire engulfs them both, incinerating them into skeletons… their bright, blue eyes rounding on Sam.

Marwyn is gone, Sam is all alone. The void is endless. In its blind depths, Sam beholds thousands upon thousands of blue eyes staring back at him.


	50. Arya VII

Arya

"The Little Birds are children. The Hand gives them food as payment. They enter the Red Keep through the tunnels in a sewer grate, but you need a key to get past the dungeons." Arya informs Gendry as the two of them examine a map of King's Landing under torchlight. It was close to midnight and every so often they hear the stomping footsteps of Lannister guards patrolling past Gendry's window. The Queen has her men scouring the city, throwing people out of their homes and onto the streets for questioning during the day and by night. The Lannister Guards control every road, shouting to each other and knocking barrels over to give the Commonfolk a hard time sleeping.

Gendry is bent over the map, tracing his finger along the roads as he listens to Arya finish. "Still, it's good to know there's a way in and out of the keep. The gaolers keep keys on them, and I imagine the Hand does as well. You think you can nick them?"

"Maybe." Arya frowns at him, "Did you hear what I said? She's using children to spy on people!"

"It's a tragedy." Gendry says, shrugging, "But what do you want me to say?"

"They aren't at fault. They're starving. Anyone would do anything for food when they're starving. The boy I followed was only nine or ten years old…"

"Like I said, it's a tragedy. When I kill the Queen the children will be free, I swear they won't be harmed."

" _If_ you kill the Queen." Arya mutters.

Gendry scowls at her. "You saying you don't think I can do this?"

"I'm saying I might get to her first." smiles Arya.

Gendry scoffs. "I have over a thousand men in my rebellion. What do you have? A couple of faces and a skinny sword?"

She hits him in his shoulder and he hisses with pain. Arya grins and says, "I have faster reflexes."

Gendry grimaces, rubbing his shoulder, before looking down at his feet. "You should just stay out of this, Arya…"

Arya scowls this time. "Without me you wouldn't know anything I just told you. I can help you and I'm going to."

"I refuse to see you get hurt."

Arya wonders if she is supposed to feel something at these words. Being hurt just seems a normal thing to her. "Then you _won't_ see me get hurt. You can play the big strong man out there but don't act like I'm some weak little girl." She tells him sharply.

"But you _are_ a little girl." Gendry flatly replies, "You're still a kid. I can't let you die for my war. Please. I appreciate all your help, but I don't want it anymore… You should leave King's Landing and find your brother."

"My brother is on The Wall or he's probably dead by now." Arya spits, tears in her eyes as Gendry's words sting her. _Why is he doing this?_ "You're an idiot, Gendry… _An idiot_." She turns and storms off in a fury, leaving Gendry in a state of shock.

" _Wait!_ _Arya…_ Your brother is _alive_."

She stops before she reaches the door, her finger nearly touching the handle. "What?"

"Jon Snow? He's your brother, right? They made him the King in the North last I heard."

"Jon? King?" Arya can't believe it. "You're wrong. Jon is a bastard on The Wall. He's Lord Commander… He's not King of anything."

"They made him King when he took Winterfell back from the Boltons with your sister."

Arya's legs go numb. She has to sit down. _Sansa is alive? Jon is King?_ "How do you know all this?"

"Everyone knows it. I'm surprised you don't."

"That doesn't make sense…" _How can a bastard rise to be King?_ _Wouldn't Sansa be the true heir to Winterfell? Or Bran?_ So many questions plague her. Arya misses Jon more than anyone else… If she'd known he was the King in Winterfell, and that Sansa was with him… Would that have changed her mind about coming here? Arya doesn't know.

"You want me to go? Knowing I have a King for a brother?" Arya asks him angrily.

"What does that got to do with it?"

"I can ask him for help! If he knew I was here he would come down with his army and we can take out the Queen together!" _How could Gendry not have thought of this?!_ Arya is sure Jon would want vengeance for their father's death just as much as she does.

"I hope you know how to train a raven to carry a message to Winterfell." Gendry says sarcastically, "The Hand suggested they lock away all the city's ravens in the Red Keep. Nobody in King's Landing but the highest born can send messages anymore, and the Hand reads everything that goes out."

"Why would they do that?"

"The Hand said it was for protection."

"Then I'll sneak inside, and—"

"No!" Gendry rounds on her, "You can't risk your life any more than you already have. Please…"

"Why is it ok for you to risk your life but not mine?!" Arya shouts, forgetting that the guards outside might hear her.

Gendry embraces her in a hug before she can see it coming. She accepts it numbly, feeling like No One again. "I don't want you to die with me. Live a long life somewhere far from here." He whispers, his breath hot against her ear.

With all her might Arya shoves him off her. " _Idiot_." She says one final time before turning around and walking out the door.


	51. Theon III

Theon

It's a queer joke that Theon Greyjoy, after being tortured for what felt like his entire life by Ramsay Bolton—dreading the pain that he inflicted every day—would be standing on a ship of his own, surrounded by men who obey his commands, about to take part in the greatest battle the Narrow Sea has ever known. Hundreds of his uncle's ships are on fast approach, and Theon hears Yara screaming from the bow of their ship for the men to prepare the cannons.

When Theon witnesses Daenerys return on her black dragon and soar over her fleet, he finds himself shivering in his boots—and not out of anticipation like he used to. _Reek, what do you think you're doing? Get that armor off and go hide. You're no soldier. Not anymore._

 _You're wrong_ , Theon tells the cruel voice. _This is my chance, this is my redemption! I'm not Reek anymore. I'm Theon Greyjoy! I will bring back honor to my family name, here and now, and kill my uncle myself if I have to, or I will die trying!_

" _WHAT IS DEAD MAY NEVER DIE!"_ Theon blurts out as loud as he can, shoving his sword up in the air and roaring at the oncoming fleet like one of Ramsay's dogs. Fellow screams of rage erupt all around him. Theon's war cry causes an uproar from his crew, spurring their spirits on, readying them for the onslaught that was to come. As the enemy ships draw closer, Theon knows this was to be _his_ moment.

Then he feels a powerful gust of wind overhead followed by an ear-splitting shriek.

Before any ship can attack, three dragons descend upon Victarion's army, raining fire. Theon hears the pirate's screams of agony, sees the burning men try to dive into the sea and save themselves. The flames catch the sails, tearing them down as the base of the ships are torn asunder. The ships in the rear begin to open fire, catapulting burning rocks up into the sky, attempting to strike the dragons down—But Drogon leads his brothers with deft precision, weaving between every fiery comet that rushes up to greet them. The rocks plummet back down into the sea, narrowly missing the front-line of Dany's fleet, though salty water splashes Theon's face every time a boulder crashes near them. Yara commands their ships to hold back and wait—for it's too dangerous to get close to the battle now. The dragons are unmerciful. Their streams of fire cascade endlessly over every Ironborn galley until Drogon swoops around and his siblings follow. They begin again, flying back toward Dany's fleet. They continue this pattern, and every ship that meets their shadow burns until the entire eastern horizon is ablaze.

Theon thinks it's the most beautiful thing he's ever seen. It was like staring into the Seven Hells itself, and feeling no fear because the God of Death was on his side.

That was then. After it was over, Theon realizes this was no battle at all. This was a slaughter. Every enemy ship in sight was on fire and sinking. Most of their inhabitants are either dead or dying. Theon observes one man dancing aboard his deck on fire, tripping and falling into a broken mast and slicing his face apart. He sees a man up in the crow's nest, surrounded by flames, try and make a leap for the water before he was overtaken—but lands instead on the railing, breaking his legs. The dragon's cries of triumph are something Theon will remember for the rest of his days.

 _That was quite a victory. Great honor. Well done, Reek._


	52. Tyrion III

Tyrion

" _Mercy! Your Grace! Please! Mercy! Mercy! Please have mercy, Mother of Dragons! Mercy! We will do anything for you! I never wanted to be here! We are yours to command! Please, Your Grace! Mercy!"_

The remaining pirates are lined up aboard the last ship in Victarion's fleet still afloat while the rest all burn and sink into the smoking sea around them. Drogon hovers over them all, flapping his mighty wings as Daenerys listens to their pleas aboard his back. Tyrion is behind her, having watched from above as the dragons wrought havoc upon Victarion's army with ease. Now he is watching the pirates below. There are a hundred or so in all. Their screams mix together in a desperate orchestra of pleas for mercy.

"We could use them to invade King's Landing as fodder." Tyrion says in Dany's ear, "However that would mean trusting them not to rape and plunder… They will be a problem in the end... and we can't let them go. If even one of them manages to get the word out to Cersei that we're coming then we will lose our element of surprise."

"Then I will not spare them." Dany says, and before he can argue, Tyrion notices that there is a fire in her eyes as she cries, _"Dracarys!"_

When it's over and the last scream dies, Daenerys flies them back to _The Red Wind_ and the rest of her fleet, entirely untouched by the enemy. They are met with a swell of cheers as Drogon lands aboard her flagship and roars with triumph, the other two dragons circling above them and breathing fire into the sky. Tyrion carefully slides off the black beast's spine, landing on all fours rougher than he would've liked beside its hind leg. Greyworm helps him up while Daenerys dismounts gracefully, bidding Drogon farewell before he rocks the ship and takes flight again.

"Your Grace, that was spectacular. An astonishingly swift victory!" Varys sings, rushing in to praise her. "Truly, I have never seen such—"

"Thank you, Lord Varys." Daenerys interrupts him, slipping past him and Tyrion over to where Jorah Mormont stands, nearly naked except for his singed small-clothes. His infected arm still gives Tyrion pause whenever he notices it, and he nearly shouts to Dany when she takes his blackened hand in her own. "Does it hurt?"

"Not at all." He softly tells her, "It feels… strange."

"Come with me. Now." She commands him, and guides him down into her cabin. Tyrion watches them leave with a frown, noticing Jorah's eager smile before they disappear.

"It appears war has given our Queen a lust for other needs." Varys comments with a sigh, "Understandable really. Though I never would've thought to see Jorah the Andal alive again."

"She shouldn't be doing that. We went through this already with Daario." Tyrion says grumpily.

"Is your concern a political one or a personal one?" Varys asks in his sing-song voice.

"I don't like what you're implying." Tyrion growls, "If she's going to be Queen of Westeros, she can't have a paramour, or the people will not take her seriously."

"They _will_ take her dragons seriously, and perhaps that is enough. Kings have had many mistresses in the past. Why should this one be any different?"

"A Queen is not a King. Women are judged differently from men." Tyrion says and Varys casts him a look. "What? It's not right but that doesn't make it untrue. The people will mock her, and when the time comes to be married—"

"Plenty of suitors will line up, I'm sure. Your worry for our Queen might be more misplaced then you realize, my friend."

"I just watched her burn thousands of men alive without batting an eye. I have a right to be worried."

"She is not the Mad King."

"But she is his daughter. You know what they say about Targaryens."

"I would be more worried about Jorah Mormont, if I were you." Varys turns around to glare at The Red Woman across the deck. She is watching the burning ships sink into the water with a composed expression. Tyrion remembers Varys' feud with her from before but cannot stop his friend from calling out to her in time, "What magic did you use to cure his arm, dare I ask? Or are the Lord of Light's secrets unworthy of me?"

Kinvara faces them with a smile, and Tyrion feels the same uneasiness he felt when they first crossed paths in Meereen. "It was not magic that cured his greyscale, only the Lord of Light's will." She tells them.

"Call it what you will, shooting fire out of your hands is magic, the kind you hear about in children's stories and old tales from thousands of years ago," Varys says, raising his head with confidence. He seems determined not to be browbeaten by her again. "So how did you do it? Please, I'm _dying_ to know. Is it even truly cured or will he wake up tomorrow morning insane from infection? Enlighten me, dear."

"It's very simple." She says, "To give a man the Lord of Light's gift, you must know their body and soul. Some use blood, some use prayer, and some use sex. The act of sex lets a man and a woman know each other more than they know themselves, and with the Lord's power I replaced the disease with a different kind of disease, you could call it; because like a disease, fire spreads."

Tyrion listens with a skeptical ear, not believing half of it. "If sex could cure ailments then by all means, My Lady, fuck me until I'm not a dwarf."

Kinvara giggles, to his surprise. "It doesn't work like that, I'm afraid. Though the offer is… tempting." _Tempting, is it?_ Tyrion doubts he has the balls to go to bed with such an intimidating woman; though he has to admit, she _is_ beautiful… yet something about her rubs him the wrong way. She says, "The Lord chose Jorah Mormont to be his champion. I witnessed him myself in the flames, fighting in King's Landing—I only obeyed My Lord's will."

"Such magic comes at a cost. It always does." Varys tells her sourly.

"You're right, Lord Varys." Kinvara says, her smile unflinching, "He paid his arm for it."

"What else?" Tyrion persists. "There's always more with you sorceresses."

The High Priestess looks again to the burning ships in the ocean, the fire's dance reflecting in her eyes, and says, "Jorah owes The Lord a debt for his life, and only _death_ can pay for _life_."

Such vague riddles might intrigue him on a different day, but Tyrion is exhausted and sick—the after-effects of drinking so much beginning to kick in. He bids them both farewell before retiring into his cabin beneath _The Red Wind._

After relieving his need to vomit out his window, Tyrion wipes his beard off with the sleeve of his golden tunic, then takes a goblet and fills it with as much wine as it'll carry. His room is right beside his Queen's… and their ship—as big as it was—is not a castle… He takes a seat on his bed, closing his eyes, drinking his wine, trying to block out Dany's muffled moans of pleasure on the other side of his wall. _It's just like the other night when she had Yara visit…Or are her moans a little louder this time?_ His goblet is empty, so he pours himself another, gulping it down as loud as he can. _Just get drunk… Just get drunk…_

Tyrion relaxes against his bedspread, unable to stop himself from listening. _Dany's body… so young, so beautiful… riding that hairy, beast of a man, Jorah Mormont, and his strange, black, cracked arm…_ A mixture of disgust and arousal gives Tyrion an unpleasant erection. _Not like last time. Last time I could hear both her and Yara. Two girls moaning… that was a good night… Gave me plenty to keep my mind busy, and my hand… But it feels wrong now… Something isn't right with Jorah. Never mind that he's older than I am, it's his arm… How could any woman want something so hideous touching them?_

The irony of that thought, and the wine going to his head, cracks a chuckle from between Tyrion's lips. _How could any woman want something so hideous like me? Plenty have touched me, pleased me, and pretended to love me, even… But none have ever truly loved me. Perhaps I am being too judgmental. I should be happy for Jorah—he's been in love with Daenerys for a lot longer than I've known her. She appears to love him now as well. He might not be suitable for marriage—but I did tell her to enjoy herself while she has the opportunity to do so out here on the sea… I should take my own advice and stop worrying or I'll grow as bald as Varys._

With that in mind, Tyrion lowers the goblet down on the desk beside him and unbuckles his pants. Sliding them down his legs, he wraps his hand around his cock and closes his eyes. He listens to Dany's moans and imagines that he's the one inflicting her ecstasy. Up and down, his hand slides along his erection. He sees himself climbing down between her legs and tasting her. Somehow, he just knows she has one that doesn't smell of yeast or fish, like so many Tyrion's tasted in his past-life at brothels. A Queen, Tyrion had never tasted, yet he can imagine Dany's scent and the look on her face when she climaxes against his tongue and within seconds Tyrion is already writhing with a pained expression; blanketing his gushing member with the closest thing he can reach—the bottom of his golden shirt.

Dany's moans in reality go on and on while Tyrion groans and struggles to take his shirt off without wiping his own seed across his belly, chest, and face. Red-faced and drunk, Tyrion throws his clothing on the floor, turns over in his bed, and passes out.


	53. Sansa V

Sansa

Sansa Stark sits at the high table in the Grey Hall between Bran and Jon, not really listening to the debate they're having with the wildling, Tormund Giantsbane. Her thoughts are elsewhere, dreading her wedding in just a few short days. All of Jon's Bannermen would attend, as well as all of the Eyrie's. It wouldn't take long before the whole Realm heard the news; Sansa Stark married to Petyr Baelish... She hasn't spoken to Jon since he informed her of his decision and he isn't giving her so much as a glance anymore during council meetings. She hoped that with Davos gone he might seek her council—but now Jon turns to Bran or one of his Bannermen, he would look to anyone except Sansa for advice every time. _Perhaps he's waiting for me to get over this? It's expected of me to forgive him and move on… Or perhaps he doesn't value my opinion at all. He has never once asked—not without me making him. And when I did he just argued and didn't listen. He charged into battle like a thick-headed idiot because of Rickon. If he just listened to me…_

"I've heard reports of conflicts between the Free Folk and the other northerners, the Manderlys and Cerwyns especially have been complaining about them." Jon says to Tormund, who stands before them below the high table, anger simmering underneath his wild, red hair. Jon continues, "I've left you in charge of your people and given them The Gift as their lands. But with winter here anywhere outside a castle or keep isn't safe, so I understand your people's needs. I've ordered the northern Lords to give your people shelter and safety during winter. The only thing your people have to give in return is their service and labor."

" _My people_? You're their new King. They're your people just as well as mine, _Your Grace_." Tormund grumbles, narrowing his eyes, "The Northern Lords have been feeding you lies. The Free Folk have been treated like dogs ever since we crossed The Wall, and your rise to power hasn't changed that. The ones who fought in your war are dying in the snow because your fancy Lords won't let them inside their walls."

"As I said, I've instructed them to—"

"They're lying if they say they'll do it." Tormund interrupts him, "You might call us the Free Folk but the rest of the North still knows us as Wildlings. They'll never stop hating our kind."

"I cannot stop discrimination in the north, Tormund. I can only ask that you do your best to work with them."

"I'm telling you, right now, The Free Folk will die before the Long Night ever comes."

"No. They won't." Jon looks at Bran who nods as though he can read his mind. _What's he doing now?_ Sansa wonders, frowning. Jon says, "Tell the Free Folk Winterfell is their home if they need it. We have the room and a lot of work for the men and women both. If the other Lords don't like it then they can take it up with me."

Tormund smiles appreciatively. Sansa, however, scowls at her older brother. _We only have enough food to last three months and he's inviting more people in?_ She wants to voice her concerns, but like always Jon would just talk her down. As Tormund turns to leave, the doors to the Grey Hall opens and someone Sansa thinks she'd never see again enters. Towering over the Stark Guards, covered from head to foot in snow, and carrying a familiar, pale boy over his shoulders, The Hound grunts and whips his long hair out of his eyes and glares up at the high table. Sansa's jaw drops, her heart skipping in her chest. His clothing clings to his muscular body, his hair drapes over the burned left side of his face, and at first, he doesn't even see her sitting there beside Jon. "Can I get some fucking help here?"

"Who the fuck are you?" Tormund asks him suspiciously, his hand moving to the hilt of his axe.

"You a Maester?" The Hound asks him.

"Do I look like a Maester?"

"No? Then get out of my way."

"Why don't you set that boy down and make me, big man." Tormund steps up to him and gets in his face. Neither look away, both men unafraid. The Hound smiles grimly.

"Tormund, stand down!" Jon bellows, and the giant Wildling does as his King commands, though his eyes never leave the Hound's as he backs away. Jon says, "Speak your name and why you've come here."

"My name is Sandor Clegane. I've come on behalf of the Brotherhood without Banners. I found this one on my way north." The Hound answers, glaring suspiciously up at Jon.

 _I can't believe he's really here._ Sansa heard from Brienne about how he had protected Arya in the Riverlands… but Brienne said she'd killed him. He's carrying Brienne's Squire, Podrick Payne, who hangs limply, like a corpse over his shoulders. Maester Wolkan comes shambling out of nowhere, the chain around his neck clinking, to help carry Pod down onto a table to examine him. "He's frostbitten. Could lose his hands and feet. We need to warm him up." The Maester, a chubby bald man, told them. He was the previous Maester for Ramsay Bolton, Sansa remembers, but a Maester served the castle's current Lord and not a House specifically, so he was quick to swear servitude to Jon when they took back Winterfell.

"What happened to him? Where is Brienne?" Sansa asks The Hound, approaching them slowly. Once again, she is amazed by how large he stands, looking down on her for the first time since his arrival, brushing snow out of his hair and onto the clean floor. He doesn't seem nearly as surprised to see her as she was to see him. "They were ambushed in the swamps by the Crannogmen." He says, looking between her and Jon, unsure of who to speak to. "I wasn't there so I don't know. Ask _him_ when he wakes up." He gestures to Pod, who is lifted out of the Hall by the Maester and several other guards.

"He might die yet." The Maester sighs on his way out, "But you also may have saved his life. I'll do the best I can. I can examine you as well, Ser…"

"I'm not a Knight." He growls. "I'm fine. Just need something to drink and eat. Ale, not water."

"You'll have all you need. First, tell me your true name, not what people call you." Jon says.

"He's Sandor Clegane." Sansa says, frowning up at the man who once saved her from rapers in King's Landing. "Brienne was captured by Crannogmen? Why?"

"Who knows why?" The Hound shrugs, "Probably being too fucking loud."

"Howland Reed is the Head of the Crannogmen." Jon says, looking now at Bran and Meera. "Why would he do this?"

"It must be a misunderstanding. He couldn't have known she served the Starks." Meera says defensively. _He is her dad_ , Sansa remembers.

"Of course you would say that." Sansa snaps at her, "Brienne would obviously say she was loyal to the Starks and then he would release her, right? So then why isn't she back yet?"

"You haven't seen it out there, Little Bird." The Hound sniffs, "Nearly died walking through the snow to get up here. It might be wiser to stay south."

Sansa notices Jon's face contort into a curious frown, his eyes going between The Hound and Sansa suspiciously. He says, "I will send Howland Reed a raven. I will command that he release Brienne of Tarth at once."

"And if he doesn't obey your command?" Sansa asks, her hands clenching into fists.

"My father would never betray the Starks!" Meera shouts at her and Bran grabs her shoulder to stop her from standing up. "He has always been loyal. He didn't know. Just tell him to release her and he will!"

"But if he doesn't, what then?!" Sansa yells back.

"Seven Hells." The Hound mumbles, making Tormund snort in spite of himself.

"Silence! The both of you!" Jon's voice thunders across the hall. "I will deal with this properly, you both have my word. I need Howland Reed as my ally and I will not start a war with him, not over one knight."

"All you ever do is send ravens and talk about making allies." Sansa scowls, "You don't understand what these people can do. Brienne is a woman; do you think his men will hold back from raping her by now? If Howland Reed is so loyal then where was he when you called for aid against Ramsay?"

" _Defending the Neck!_ " Meera shouts, red-cheeked. "Freys and Ironborn invade our lands all the time! He can't leave it all unprotected! He swore an oath to your father to do this!"

"Meera, please stop." Bran begs at her side.

Meera rounds on him next, "You should tell your sister to watch what she says about things she doesn't understand."

Sansa wants nothing more than to respond, but Jon yells, " _That's enough!_ "

The Hound is staring at her. Suddenly she is struck with an idea. "Sandor Clegane." She addresses him boldly, "You once offered to save me from the Lannisters and bring me home. I am home now, and you are here by my side once again… May I ask one last request of you, and beg you to rescue my Swornsword, Brienne of Tarth?"

A Heavy silence follows her words. Sansa and The Hound's eyes never leave each other's, and she can tell he is considering her request.

"Sansa, I've made up my mind about this." Jon says but she ignores him, waiting for Sandor to reply.

"Brienne almost killed me once." The Hound grimaces.

"You were with my sister. She was sworn to protect her."

"I was already protecting her." The Hound growls.

"You were the one that was with Arya?" Jon asks, approaching them now with his mouth agape, forgetting that he was trying to stop this from getting out of hand.

"It was a year ago, last I saw her. She left me begging to die. Haven't seen her since. She wasn't hurt."

Jon looks unbearably relieved. "Where could she be now?"

"Probably dead." The Hound scoffs.

"Well I thank you for looking after her. Please don't heed my sister's words, I will take care of Reed. In the meantime you are welcome to stay in Winterfell as long as you like."

"I'll heed your sister's words all I like, if it's all the same."

"It's not all the same. As King of the North, Sansa, I command you to stay out of this."

"You can't stop me." Sansa is glaring at him now, unabashed, without tears. Jon is taken aback, much to her satisfaction, so she continues, "She's my Swornsword and I'm… I'm a Stark of Winterfell."

"Sansa…" Jon trails off, his brow furrowing. "Howland Reed is loyal to our father."

 _You mean my father._

Sansa turns away from Jon, ignoring his words. "Sandor, will you help me?" She asks, reaching out and taking one of his massive hands in both of hers. The Hound reproaches at first, but she holds onto him. "I would reward you for your aid."

"What sort of reward?"

"Gold. Food. A Keep of your own… whatever you want … and I would name you my Swornsword as well if you'd have me."

"Sansa, you can't—"

"Fine." The Hound says loudly. "You want me to save your bodyguard, I'll save her. But don't make me _like_ her. I'm no Swornsword, I'm no Knight, and I'm nobody's _Hound_ anymore. I'll leave in the morning, but I want a reliable horse that can weather the storm this time."

"You won't be going alone." Growls a voice behind him and she sees Tormund Giantsbane grinning maliciously, saying, "My lovely lady is being held by frog-eaters. Fuck the morning, we leave _tonight_."

"You can go by yourself tonight. I'm getting a good bloody night's rest first." The Hound tells him and the two men laugh, as though their tension before never even occurred.

"I will not have you starting a war over one Knight." Jon rounds on Sansa and he sounds truly angry with her for the first time. Sansa refuses to look him in the eye, keeping her gaze on Sandor's.

"We won't start a war, Your Grace." Tormund assures the King, "One body, maybe two, but we'll get her out before any of them can see us."

"You don't know that. If they catch you, they'll hang you. Or worse." Jon says, "Let me handle this, I will explain to Howland Reed—"

"Let us go with them." Bran says, "Meera and I were discussing it earlier. We can tell him ourselves. I'm a Stark, and Meera is his daughter. He won't hurt us if we go with them."

"Bran…" Jon groans overwhelmed, giving Sansa a flutter of delight.

"It's ok, Jon. This way I can ask him more about…" Bran hesitates, eyeing The Hound and Tormund, "About what we discussed earlier."

"I'm not dragging a crippled boy through the snow storm." The Hound says flatly.

"You won't have to. I'll take care of him." glowers Meera.

Jon was the only one in the room now against the plan. Even as King, Jon didn't have it in him to argue about this anymore, sighing with defeat. Sansa smiles, confidence restoring in her heart, thankful Davos, Littlefinger, or any other Lords were not here to help advise her half-brother on this. "Fine." Jon says, "I will grant you ten men to take with you for protection."

"That'll only slow us down out there." Tormund says, "Just the four of us should be enough. Quick and easy."

"You will not start a war." Jon warns them.

"Aye. No wars." The Hound says, licking his lips as a serving wench brought him a tankard of ale and a plate of chicken.


	54. Davos III

Davos

The swamps stretch out in a dank, murky, canvas in all directions. The tall, forest trees cast shadows over their path. Snow filters through the trees, casting their surroundings in a brilliant, white shower. It's morning; Davos is exhausted after spending several long nights with the Ironborn. Euron wouldn't let him leave, even when Davos promised to return the following day to accompany him to Greywater Watch. _"And let you sneak off? I think not, good man. You must drink with me! Enjoy a woman or two, there's plenty to go around."_ The King of the Iron Islands had told him. Now Davos walks with Euron at the head of his small army. All two thousand of his men are traveling in their heavy, clanking armor, equipped with axes, spears, and shields. Davos isn't nearly as prepared for battle as them—wearing only his navy-blue traveling cloak and leather clothing, as well as his longsword strapped to his side.

"Is it wise to bring your whole army onto their lands?" Davos asks Euron as they wade through the mud. "Usually bringing your army onto another House's lands without invitation is a declaration for war, Your Grace."

"You think I don't know that? I want Reed to see the size of my army and _tremble_ with fear." The King smirks, the scar on his cheek twitching; His ugly, wooden crown hugs his head, wrapped up in his curly dark hair. He walks faster than everyone following him, without an ounce of trepidation. _As dangerous as this man is, he is not worthy of being a King,_ Davos thinks as he trudges through ankle-deep, ice-cold, swamp water. _I would hardly call this army fit for conquest either. If I had a raven I would let Jon know this is a mummer's farce and we'd be better off kicking these people back to the islands they came from. Perhaps I can reason with Howland Reed instead of Euron and accomplish something from this visit, at least. We don't know how many men the Reeds have, yet Euron doesn't care—he thinks he's untouchable. I might be walking into my own death right now just for associating with this mad man._

Up ahead, a small group of people appear like ghosts in the fog. Men with greenish skin and unkempt, shaggy hair point spears at their approach. Davos counts twenty of them in sight. Among them is a squat old man, his skin covered in the same affliction Princess Shireen had, only his is _far_ worse, covering his entire body in long, deep fissures… Davos stops dead in the mud when he spots who stands at this disheveled old man's side. There's no mistaking that red dress, that strange necklace, and those piercing, beautiful eyes. Rage bubbles in Davos' heart, burning his cheeks and blinding his thoughts. He forgets why he is here; overwhelmed with a desire to run up to The Red Woman and strangle her… but with so many of the Crannogmen in his way it was impossible…

Meanwhile, Euron and Howland Reed greet each other. " _Thank you_ for coming. I wasn't sure you would accept my invitation." Howland Reed croaks, his voice gravely and dry. "Though it appears you've come expecting bloodshed."

"I do enjoy a little bloodshed here and there." Euron grins, "I also know when the time for diplomacy can be more beneficial. You know _why_ I've come here. I want your trees, your women, and whatever else you… _people_ have. I want everything, Howland Reed, and while I did not anticipate myself standing in these swamps looking at your ugly face, I will make do."

"You can have everything you want, and a lot more, if you agree to my terms." Howland says, drawing Davos' surprise.

"Depends on your terms. You see, we Greyjoys _take_ what is ours. That is our way of life." Euron looks around at his men and they all roar with agreement. Davos shakes with anger, wishing he could speak, but the Red Woman's gaze infuriates him beyond comprehension. _What the fuck is she doing here?_

Then she speaks, though not to Davos. "It would be a mistake for you to kill us now, Your Grace. You would profit so much more from an alliance."

Euron eyes her up and down, smirking his casual smirk. "Who's this?"

"The Lady Melisandre." Howland says, "She is my new priestess I've acquired. Tell me, Euron. Do you want to be King?"

"I am King, _old man_. King of the Iron Islands and soon I will be _King of Westeros_." Euron grins confidently, both hands on his hips.

"How do you plan on doing this with only two thousand men?" Howland asks curiously.

"I will have a lot more than that when Daenerys Targaryen reaches our shores." Euron replies, "I will marry her, make her my Queen, and together we will rule on the backs of dragons."

Howland laughs at him. Euron's smirk turns into a scowl. "I didn't tell a jest, _old man_."

"If you think a man like _you_ can convince a Targaryen to marry you then you're a bigger fool than I thought, Euron Greyjoy." Howland chuckles. "She's more likely to burn you alive just for asking her." Davos can't believe Howland also believes in these dragons. _Can it really be true? Can there really be a Targaryen Queen in our midst?_

Davos catches his voice before Euron can respond to Howland's taunt, crossing his arms behind his back and standing straighter. "Lord Reed, I am Davos Seaworth and I am here on behalf of the King of the North."

"Silence, Davos. Remember what I said about my patience." Euron warns him.

"Let him speak." Howland says.

"My Lords, I would ask the both of you to stop this senseless fighting and pledge fealty to Jon Snow. He is our one true King, and right now he needs the help of every man in the North, Neck, and South, if we're going to fight back against the true enemy." Davos says, forgetting about Melisandre for now and watching Howland's reaction.

"Tell me, Davos Seaworth. Who is our true enemy?"

"The Dead, My Lord. White Walkers are coming for us all. They march on The Wall when it's defended by less than fifty men. If they make it through, the North will fall first. All of us will perish. I know some of you must think the story false but I promise you, they're real! And they're coming! Just ask your Red Woman!"

Howland looks at Melisandre, raising an eyebrow. "We know each other." She explains, "Both of us served Stannis Baratheon, before he fell."

"I see." Howland rubs his beard, thinking. "Davos, I assure you, I believe in The White Walkers just as much as your King does."

"Then join me in Winterfell and tell Jon yourself. We need every ally we can get."

"I'm afraid I cannot do that." Howland looks sad as he says, "I am loyal to House Stark. Your King is no true Stark. He is the son born of _rape_ to Lyanna Stark and _Rhaegar Targaryen_."

Davos glares at Melisandre. "What lies have you been telling him?"

"She was unaware when I told her, Ser Davos." Howland smiles, "I was there the day Jon was born at the Tower of Joy. When Eddard Stark came out bearing that baby boy I had a _feeling_ , but Ned confirmed it. His sister was raped, and forced to bear a child for that _noble_ prince. A woman like that…" Howland gasps and wipes tears from his eyes. Davos can't believe what he's hearing. _How is this true? Jon's a bastard… but a Targaryen?_ "Ned Stark made me promise to keep his secret. But I never promised to forgive Rhaegar or love that boy. A Targaryen can never be trusted, Ser Davos. Someday, you will know I'm right."

" _I thought I was going to be the topic of discussion_?" Euron interrupts, walking toward the Crannogmen unafraid, his arms reaching up into the air. Behind him, the King's Ironborn soldiers tense up. "I've heard enough about the King in the North. What do you offer me, Howland? Give me a reason not to take your lands and murder you all right here and now?"

"We share a common enemy." Howland scowls calmly, "Any Targaryen in power will only bring about ruin and chaos. Daenerys Targaryen must be stopped, at all cost. Join me, and you will have your Kingdom, your dragons, and all you desire. All I ask for is your men in battle."

"I don't see how frog-eaters and tree-fuckers can help me take the Iron Throne?" Euron laughs, as well do his men. They don't see the slim, dark shapes emerging all around them from their hiding places, but Davos does. He watches as thousands of men crawl out from behind a tree or a bush, appearing like shadows standing in the fog, aiming bows and spears Davos' way. The Ironborn's laughter turns to ashes in their mouths when they realize they're perfectly surrounded...

Howland's smile is penetrating. "I outnumber you, Greyjoy. You underestimate my strength. We've avoided every war thus far, and my men are strong and fast. Look around you. Can you count how many? I doubt it, so let me help you; we are _twenty thousand_ strong!" More and more arise from the shadows. Every one of them has a spear, but Davos notices none of them wear armor like the Greyjoys. _It would be a massacre if they start fighting right now._

"My Lords, please listen to me!" Davos yells, "We can't fight amongst ourselves! It doesn't matter what blood we have in our veins or where our fathers came from! We are all men and we all share this Realm!"

But neither Euron nor Howland are listening. Euron has drawn his sword. " _I will fight all of you_ _dirty little shits right now!_ Do you think this scares me?! I am Euron Greyjoy!" His men all roar with lust for battle. "I am the King of the Iron Islands! The Storm! The Drowned God! I am them all! You think you can stop me with your pathetic army of starving freaks?!"

That's when Lady Melisandre comes upon him. Euron lets her get close, admiring her beauty, one hand closing around the hilt of his sword. "It would be a mistake, My King." She says to him again, "With us, you can have all the power you seek. Every King has allies, you need only take them. You can also have me." She takes his hand and guides it up her face. "With me, you will have more than you ever dreamed of."

"How's that? I can dream big, _My Lady_. You're a beautiful women, but I have lots of beautiful women." Euron's fingers brush her lips, feeling her smoothness.

"I have seen you in the fire. You are the one true King and the Lord of Light's champion."

"That's what you told _Jon Snow_." Davos growls, interrupting their flirtations. He wants to yell, but somehow holds back.

Euron laughs and Melisandre rounds her glare on Davos. "Jon exiled me from the North. If he was truly the Prince that was Promised, he would know that he needs me at his side to defeat The Night King. You and your false King are only puppets in the Lord of Light's Game."

"Still, if you've seen Jon Snow in your flames before—and now you admit to being wrong about him." Euron narrows his eyes with a wolfish grin at her. "How can I be so sure you're not wrong about me?"

"I was meant to be by Jon's side for the time that I was." Melisandre replies coldly, "If not for him exiling me, I would not be standing before you today, Your Grace. I have seen you in the fire for a reason."

"And what did you see me doing in this fire?"

"I can show you, but first you must open your mind and believe." She strokes Euron's chest.

"She's been wrong before." Davos warns Euron, unable to hold back his tongue. "She is responsible for the death of Stannis' daughter, _Shereen Baratheon_!"

" _Good_. Never loved the Baratheons. One less enemy to worry about." Euron spits, still unable to look away from The Red Woman's beauty. He glides a finger through her red hair, admiring its warmth. Davos' face burns as well, for a different reason. "Give up, Ser Davos. I think I will give peace a chance and hear you out, My Lady—if you're willing to come back with me to my tent?"

"Go back to your false King and tell him you failed, Ser Davos. He has no allies here." Melisandre's eyes shimmer like fire, locking with Davos' furious gaze.

Something snaps in the back of his mind—he hears it, like a bow-string being plucked—Davos runs full-tilt at her, his arms reaching for her throat. _I'm not going to make it!_ He's sure the mud would slow him down or Euron's guards would grab him—but he keeps going—and when his hands wrap around her slim neck, he presses down with all his strength. She gasps and claws at him to stop; Davos responds by pinning her down into a bristly bush, seeing only Shireen's young, pretty smile.

 _"You killed her!"_ He shouts in her face as someone starts to pull him off. His hand with only stubs for fingers, A gift from Stannis, manages to rip the necklace around her throat away in the chaos. Euron pries Davos off of her, throwing him to the Captain of his Kingsguard, Beor Kayne, who shoves a blade under his chin to calm him. Davos hardly notices. He can only gawk in horror at the feeble, old woman lying in the mud underneath the red robes Melisandre was just wearing.

She stares up at them with beady, frightened eyes. Her red dress hangs from her lumpy, sagging body. " _Nooooo!_ " The old woman moans, her voice low and desperate. " _Give it back! I need it! It's mine!"_ her bony arms reaches for the ruby necklace in Davos' clutches, and he recoils away from her in terror.

" _What the fuck is this?!_ " Euron bellows, snorting with both disgust and amusement. "Howland, you would offer me this disgusting old hag? You must be bloody madder than I thought. I was about to fuck her too. What a damn shame."

"Leave her be." Howland Reed says, hobbling on his walking stick over to them. His men stay behind, but something else follows him. Davos didn't know where it had been hiding. The beast was huge, and its abrupt appearance shocks him almost as much as finding out The Red Woman Stannis had been sleeping with for so long was truly this old, pathetic creature in the mud. The Direwolf stops beside its master and growls menacingly at the Ironborn, her grey and black face covered in long, deep scars.

Never in his life has Davos beheld a Direwolf this big. Her fur is wet and matted down; grey and wild. She growls as Howland bends down beside the old woman and helps her stand. " _Make him give it back!_ " Melisandre moans to him, weeping. It was like all the life, wisdom, and beauty in her had drained away, as well as all the maturity. She was like a child again, crying to her father for her favorite toy—yet she's old enough to be well over a hundred. " _It's mine! I need it!_ "

"This is embarrassing, Reed." Euron says, "Tell me you didn't know of this or I'll take it as a trick and we can see which army is better."

Howland glares up at him, angered by his words. "You're just a big a fool as your brother. We won't be killing you, Greyjoy. We need each other."

"You would fight for me when the time comes to take the throne?" Euron asks, considering his proposal, impressed with the Direwolf beside Howland Reed. He then looks at Davos still sitting in the mud, and asks, "While you say the King will reward me a castle of my own in the north if I side with him. Let me think. One option leaves me as King of the realm and one leaves me as some Bannermen to a King I don't care about. Sorry, Davos. I think I'm going to go with the Frog-Eaters after-all. It was amusing watching you wrestle with the witch, but I think your use has met its end."

The dagger at his throat press deeper against his flesh, drawing blood, and Davos' life flashes before his eyes—

"Do not kill him." Howland Reed says.

"Why not? He's mine to kill."

"He's the King of the North's ambassador. Killing him _is_ an act of war—one we cannot afford right now, not yet." Howland glowers at Davos without pity. "Send him away. Tell your King in the North that Howland Reed is no ally of his, and if we see any northern man in our lands they won't leave it alive."

Euron considers his words while a strange numbness take hold over Davos. _If I die right now, then so be it. I've lived long enough. I've served long enough. I've seen every depressing, terrible, shitty thing there is to see. Let it end so I may be with Matthos and Shereen again…_

" _Fine!_ Get out of here, Seaworth. Before I change my mind. Oh, and give me that necklace there. I think I'll keep it."

"It's the Lady Melisandre's." Howland Reed insists, suddenly sounding worried.

"It's mine now, unless you want to end our agreement over _jewelry_?" Euron laughs as he snatches the strange necklace out of Davos' clutches.

Before they let him leave, Davos is robbed of all his gold by the Ironborn as well as his shoes and leathers, leaving him naked except for his small-clothes. Some of the men laugh at him. Davos curses them all, and wonders how he in the _Seven Hells_ he's ever going to travel through the winter snow all the way back to Winterfell like this…

 _Naked, frozen, and a failure._


	55. Gilly II

Gilly

 _Little Sam hasn't eaten today… What am I going to do?_

The winding roads of Oldtown are confusing, even after living on them for several weeks. They felt like they lead everywhere and nowhere, intersecting and spiraling in circles so that by the end of the day Gilly hardly explored as far as she hoped. The elegant clothes she received from Sam's mother are torn and dirty now, smelling of rain and sweat. She hasn't washed since the innkeeper kicked them out. Little Sam smells even worse. He cries most of the day, annoying almost everyone she tries to talk to about earning a wage, though having a baby makes her sympathetic for some, and she was able to make it by on the kindness of strangers—but not anymore. She makes her living on the corner by an apothecary, begging... When the days turn into afternoons she would go for a walk with her baby, asking around random small business such as taverns or markets if they have need of a cleaning wench. All of them answer her the same: No children allowed.

Gilly finds her way into the Red-Torch District of the city, down near the wharfs. Other homeless men and women are usually here, and Gilly has made a few friends who help keep her baby warm at night by their fire—though she trusts none of them to watch Little Sam, so she can't leave him with any of them while she searches for work. Today, her friends are nowhere to be seen, and the alley they usually hide in is abandoned. Gilly keeps looking for someone—anyone that can help her, eventually finding a large building she's passed by a couple of times before but never investigated… A painted red sign hangs over the entryway, reading: _The Hog's Wash_.

The women on duty gives her dirty looks as she crosses through the curtains. The walls and ceiling is covered in red, embroidered draping with several portraits of nude women and men posing for her. A warm fire brews in the hearth across the room from her, and despite this place's reputation, Gilly feels strangely comfortable here. She makes her way to the front desk where a tall, sultry woman sits reading a book. "Excuse me?"

The woman gives her a sharp stare and smiles. "What have we here?" She stands and bends over, revealing her cleavage, as she examines Little Sam. "What is this filthy urchin doing in here?"

"Don't talk about my baby that way." Gilly warns her.

"Children are not supposed to be here. You have to leave, I'm afraid."

Another woman appears then, this one younger and far more beautiful, with a blue streak in her hair and heavy, black eye-liner circling her eyes. She smiles seductively at Gilly and says "Malyra can be such a bitch. Ignore her and bring your child with you, please. Come inside, darling."

"Are you the… _headmistress_?" Gilly asks the blue-haired woman, unsure if that was the right word to call her.

"I am, though that's not what they really call me here." She laughs dryly as she shows Gilly through the archway. The woman with the book scowls as they pass. Once inside the long, red corridor, Gilly can hear a lot of loud moans and grunts coming from multiple rooms. Gilly clutches her son to her breast to try and block out the noise, a trembling fear seizing control of her the deeper she travels through The Hog's Wash. _I shouldn't be here. Sam wouldn't like this…_

"What's his name?" The Headmistress asks her over her shoulder.

"Little Sam."

"How old?"

"Two."

"He's a _Gem_." The mistress smiles and Gilly sees she's missing a tooth. "What's your name?"

"Gilly…What's yours?"

"You can call me Mhysa. It means Mother, for I am the Mother of all these girls. They come to me when they have a problem, and I repair their problem without questions. That's the security I offer for all who work under me…" She leads her into a private chamber where a naked girl was already on a bed waiting for them, stretching with her nether parts exposed. Gilly gapes, and quickly looks away in embarrassment.

"How do you know I'm looking for work?" Gilly asks nervously.

"A mother would never bring their baby into a place like this unless they have to. You've come to me with a problem, and I _might_ be able to repair it. Tell me, Gilly, have you ever done this sort of work before?"

"No… But my father…"

Mhysa brushes her finger across Gilly's lips. "I don't want to know about your troubled past with your Daddy. Half the girls here have fathers that raped them, so your story isn't anything I haven't heard before, please spare me. Do you know how to do this work, is what I'm asking you."

"I know how to do it." Gilly gulps.

"Are you comfortable being paid with food instead of gold? I don't have money to spare, but there's a roof over your head, food to eat, and one of my girls will always be available to watch your child with the others."

"Others?"

"You think doing what we do all day makes us barren? Ha!" Mhysa laughs her dry, humorless laugh. "Almost every single one of my girls has a babe or two that needs taking care of, that's why they come here in the beginning, just like you are now. We're a family here and we look out for each other, just as long as you do the work that's asked of you." She snaps her fingers at the naked woman on the bed and she gets up, dresses in a silk, transparent robe, and helps remove Little Sam from Gilly's embrace.

"W-Wait!" Gilly calls as Mhysa grabs her cheek and forces her to look up into her raccoonish eyes.

"Before my girls start work I inspect their bodies personally, make sure everything is… in working order."

"But Little Sam—" Mhysa's lips plant themselves firmly against hers, forcing a deep kiss. Gilly tries to push away, but the woman's talons are stronger than she expects. She realizes she's being fondled and her clothing's being torn away by more than one pair of hands. There are multiple naked women all around her nose—caressing her, touching her, feeling every inch of her.

"Relax." Mhysa whispers, "Your baby is safe. Join me on the bed. Trust me…"

Gilly is pulled onto the bed, naked, her body a play-thing for these women to use. Gilly's thoughts are on her baby, her worst fears coming to life in her head as she imagines these women taking him and throwing him into the ocean.

"You're not trying very hard." Mhysa says from down between her legs, "Do you wish to stop?"

"No!" Gilly cries, tears in her eyes. "No, please. I can do this."

 _I need this for the baby! I'm so sorry Sam!_ Gilly closes her eyes and forces herself to moan like she was enjoying it.


	56. Sam IV

Samwell

 _Hello Jon,_

 _I have reached Oldtown and they're making me a Maester! Gilly and Little Sam are with me too! Well, they're not technically "with me", since the tower won't let them inside and I can't leave until I've earned my first chain—but it shouldn't be long. I know a Maester who is helping me, though I don't know if he's mad or a genius. Also, I know you wouldn't want me knowing, but news finally reached us about your coronation—KING OF THE NORTH?! That's incredible, Jon! You're going to hate it, but I can't think of a better man for the job. Who is Lord Commander at The Wall now? I suppose it's fine as long as it's not Thorne or Dolorous Edd. I can't believe I've missed so much already... Anyways, I write to you now because I've discovered something that I think you ought to know._

Sam pauses, thinking about how he was going to phrase this next part without sounding completely mad…

 _There is a woman traveling to Westeros as I sit here writing you this, and this woman has three, real Dragons with her. Do you remember when we talked about the Dragon Queen across the Sea? She's real, Jon. The stories about her are all true... She controls Dragons, like they're her children. Her name is Daenerys Targaryen and she's the last of her kind left. I guess she's been in Essos this whole time, but she wasn't sitting around. She has a huge army with her and they're sailing for King's Landing… Please, Jon. These dragons might be the key to stopping The White Walkers! Dragon fire forges Dragonglass, and Dragonglass kills them, so I think an actual Dragon would do a lot more, don't you think? I know this sounds mad, but you have to trust me, Jon. I wouldn't do this if I wasn't absolutely positive. You have to find her. Convince her to help us defeat the White Walkers. I know you of all people can do it._

 _Goodbye for now, and stay safe, my friend._

 _-Samwell Tarly_

He scribbles his signature into the end of his message before rolling it up and sealing it.

Ever since Sam drank the Shade of the Evening with Marwyn the Mage, his whole world felt like it was turning upside-down. Every morning he wakes up sick to his stomach and has to cough a few times to clear his throat before his meals. In his sleep, he has nightmares of blue eyes hunting him down. Honestly, Sam doesn't know how Marwyn handles it. Every day he sees him in the library, Marwyn's lips are blue as the sea. Sam still remembers the vision they shared together, and how it had taken a turn for the worse when he saw The White Walkers… how Marwyn vanished completely… All went dark, and Sam fell unconscious in fear. When he awoke he was in the infirmary with Archmaester Archybald and Marwyn the Mage arguing with each other at his bedside.

Archie was not impressed with Sam's venture into the mysterious and strange. He told Marwyn that he put up with a lot of his antics in the past, but enough was enough. "If I ever see you give that stuff to another one of my pupils again you will end up like your brother." Archie warned him, but Marwyn didn't even seem to care.

"I offered it to him. He took it by choice, Archie. I think you're just resentful he's got more balls than you ever did."

The two of them were the best of friends before and now it was like they hated each other. After that, Archie told Sam if he ever caught him drinking Evening again he would be excommunicated immediately, no second chances. Sam apologized profusely to the Archmaester and accepted his punishment of cleaning every privy in the tower for a month.

After this incident, Sam tried to get Marwyn to explain what they witnessed to him and how it all worked, but the mysterious old mage dismissed his questions. "You were there, you saw with your own eyes what happened. The fire, Sam. _Fire_!" Was the only hint he gave him _. Of course, fire is important, but that doesn't explain how the fire showed us those dragons, unless it really was just a trick of the potion._

Sam almost decided he wasn't going to send Jon this letter. After-all, how could he trust in strange visions? Yet he wrote it anyway, and finds himself staring at the white raven in the cage, debating whether or not he should do it once again…

 _If I'm wrong and there are no dragons, then I'm the biggest fool there ever was. I might doom us all if I'm wrong._ Sam closes his eyes as the raven squawks at him, and takes a deep breath. _What if I'm right? What if what I saw is real? If I don't send it, I'm the biggest fool there ever was. It truly would doom us all… I can't win..._

 _So, I might as well do it, right?_

The white raven allows him to tie the letter to its leg without fuss before being picked up and thrown out the window. It takes flight, soaring high over Oldtown, up into the clouds, and off to the north… Sam watches it fly away, imagining a dragon soaring beside it.


	57. The Hound III

Author's Note: This is a brand-new chapter, not at all from the first draft. It's more like a deleted scene I regret never including, so I'm including it now. So, for those of you craving new content, here it is. lol There will be a couple more later on as well as a new epilogue at the very end.

* * *

The Hound

All eyes are on The Hound as he buries his meaty fingers into the chicken's juicy hide, shoving handfuls of it into his mouth—stuffing his cheeks until his lips are bursting. Across the table from him, Tormund Giantsbane has two chickens, going back and forth between each with animalistic ferocity. Hovering around them, the crowd of men jeer and chant their names, placing bets on which one of them would eat the most chickens before giving up. The contest started an hour ago, and neither men slow down—if anything they eat faster and faster the longer they go. The Hound came to this tavern looking for a place to get drunk. When Tormund walked in and took his seat on the opposite end of the bar from Sandor, they ignored each other… until they both noticed that they ordered the same thing—a plate of fresh chicken. At first, the two sullenly ate their chickens, coyly eyeing one another. An unspoken race commenced to see which of them could eat their chicken first. When they both finished at the same time, they immediately ordered more. And that's how the epic chicken-eating contest that the smallfolk of Winterfell would be talking about for days became The Hound's quest for the afternoon.

 _Tormund is a formidable opponent_ ; The Hound can't help but admit as he gnaws on a huge chunk of chicken—ripping it off the bone with his jaw and swallowing it down with a gulp of strong ale. The Wildling never takes his bulging eyes off of The Hound's as he eats. _He's determined to beat me. He might just do it too._

" _I've got five silvers on the big, red Wildling!_ " hollers a skinny man in the crowd.

" _Throw in a Dragon and you've got yourself a bet, mate!_ " roars another much fatter man.

" _The Hound just keeps eating, though—look at 'em_!" shrieks the bar wench.

The doors to the tavern crash open and heavy footsteps reach his ears, but The Hound doesn't take his eyes off of Tormund to see who is there, even when they come right up to their table, shoving the heckling crowd aside. "What's all this then?" Asks a deep, proud voice behind him.

Out of the corner of his eye, The Hound recognizes the Knights of the Vale in their pretty silver armor. There's five of them, and each one is glaring down at The Hound and Tormund with fire in their eyes. "You're eating all the bloody chickens, best shove off or there'll be trouble for the both of yah." Orders the head of the pack, a big, bristly-chinned man with a broken nose.

"Last I checked we can eat all the chickens we like s'long as we pay." The Hound grumbles, still not tearing his eyes away from Tormund's. Jon had paid him handsomely for protecting Arya, yet Sandor did not want money for that—so he saw fit to throw it away on chickens and ale. _Who are these prissy knights to try and stop me?_

"We know who you are, _Dog_." growls one of the other Knights. "It's winter now, we can't be letting animals like you eat whatever the hell you want when there's people starving."

"He's right." Tormund says, "Good thing chickens lay eggs. Eggs hatch _more_ chickens, y'know." Tormund smirks at his own jape, but nobody else except for a few in the crowd chuckle. The Knights of the Vale are especially unamused.

"Don't presume to educate me on chickens, _Wildling_." seethes the broken-nosed Knight, his mailed hand clutching the hilt of his broadsword.

Just like that, The Hound knows their contest is over, as the insult peaks Tormund's interest—and the wild, red-haired giant of a man turns his dead-set gaze on the Knights. "Say that word again, and I'll break your peckers in half." He warns them.

"We aren't scared of you, Wildling." snorts another of the Knights with a pompous, wide grin.

As Tormund reaches for his axe—The Hound drops the chicken in his hands onto his plate with a loud clatter and announces to the room, " _I yield!_ Tormund, you've beat me." Leaning back in his chair, The Hound can't help but smirk at the Wildling's reaction.

"What? You—you can't _yield!_ This isn't a fucking duel, this is a real man's game! You don't give up until you pass out!" Tormund bawls, standing up at the injustice of it all, red-faced from the buckets of ale swirling around in his gut. The Hound stands up, brushing pieces of chicken off his tunic and lap. He contributes a curt nod to the Knights of the Vale, who all glower at him as he shuffles past. Tormund rages on behind him, demanding someone else rise to challenge him. The Knights tell him to give it a rest then meander over to their own corner of the bar to drink. _Good. Chickens aren't worth killing anyone over… Not anymore._

As the sun sets, The Hound makes his drunken march up the snowy road of Winterfell, bumbling his way to the castle. Lady Sansa provided him a room of his own inside one of those high towers, with a bath to clean himself off, and a pot to piss in. _Now I just have to find the damn room—where is it again?_ The Hound lurches, a bubble of acid rising in his chest. _I'm going to spill my guts—too many people around—should find somewhere secluded, and quick!_

Staggering into the Godswood, Sandor Clegane keels over beside a huge tree and vomits half the chickens he consumed into the smooth, undisturbed pond. When he stands back up and breathes fresh air, his eyes land upon none other than Sansa Stark, sitting quietly on a rock across from the pond next to a single white weirwood tree. She's watching him, her hands folded over her lap, wearing her Stark gown with a wolf's pelt hugging her neck. _Little Bird's a woman now. More beautiful than before… and here I am, drunk, dripping in my own making._

"You should pace yourself next time." Sansa says from her rock.

"Aye." The Hound agrees, "Maybe next time. Apologies for the disturbance, erm, _My Lady_."

"A little vomit might've grossed me out when you knew me as a child, but I've seen worse since then. Much worse." Sansa smiles a little sadly at him, "You can't disturb me, Sandor Clegane."

The Hound chuckles, feeling slightly nauseous again so he keeps his head hanging over the pond's edge. "Never met a girl I couldn't disturb, one way or another."

"I'm not a girl anymore." Sansa lifts her head up a little, watching him try to hold back the rest of his chickens. "I'm a woman now…"

"I noticed." The Hound grunts, wincing as the acid comes rushing up his throat again and he blows his load into the pond with a _splash!_

Like her word, Sansa doesn't seem to care about his sick. The Hound can tell he'd intruded on her having a private moment—and if not for the need to vomit, The Hound would've left as soon as he'd seen her here. She looks at him and says, "What difference does it make whether I'm a girl or a woman? I'm still a slave to men for as long as men rule this world."

The Hound laughs at this, spraying bits of chicken all over himself. "You're no slave, Little Bird. You're a Stark of Winterfell. Trust me, as someone who has seen the world and lived with the Smallfolk, you're _lucky_."

"I'm getting married in a few days." Sansa tells him and The Hound freezes, his eyes on his own wavering reflection in the pool. _Married? My Little Bird?_ Sansa goes on, saying, "Do you know why? At first I thought Jon didn't have a choice—he needs the Vale and their support or we don't even have an army, not a real army, Jon and Littlefinger both know that… Then I realized something… Jon agreed to do this, not because of politics, but because he doesn't want _me_ to be a threat to _him_. He knows I can challenge his position any time I want—that I can reveal his secret any time I want—he wants to get rid of me, to see me married off and have children of my own so he never has to worry about losing his throne to me."

 _Littlefinger? What does he got to do with this? And what secrets does the King have that could remove him from power?_ The Hound barely comprehends half of what Sansa tells him, still struggling to keep himself steady and not pass out in the dirt, so he just listens to her, keeping his eyes on his reflection.

Sansa sniffs, her cheeks red and her eyes glistening. "I've been promised to four men in my life now. First there was Joffrey, and you remember how awful that was, I'm sure… Then there's Tyrion, who is easily the kindest of them, but he's a Dwarf and a Lannister… Then I married someone worse than Joffrey, someone worse than any man I've ever met…"

 _Ramsay Bolton._ The Hound grimaces, remembering the tales he'd heard of the Boltons and wondering what horrible tortures Sansa must've endured. A desire to stand up, cross the pond, lift Sansa up into his arms, and carry her away from this nightmare nags at The Hound. Instead, he asks, "Who is the fourth?"

"Littlefinger." Sansa's eyes meet his, and he doesn't hide his sympathy for her.

The Hound sluggishly stands up and mutters, without looking at her, "I'm sorry, Little Bird."

"You once offered to take me and flee with me from King's Landing. I'll never forget that night…" Sansa says, and he can feel her eyes burning into his. "If I were to ask you to take me away from here, tonight—right now—would you do it?"

 _In a heartbeat._ The Hound can't bring himself to answer her truthfully, though. "Your home is here, Little Bird. Your family is here. You may not love the man you marry… and I doubt you'll ever love a man like _Littlefinger_ anyway, but in the end—running away from your problems, it just leads to _more_ problems."

"Then what do I do, Sandor?" Sansa can't help it; a single tear slides down her cheek. _I don't know, Little Bird. What would I tell you if you were my daughter and not a pretty young thing I can't stop picturing naked?_

"Everyone is afraid of something." The Hound says, "My brother, The Mountain. He scares the Seven Hells out of me just thinking about him. Then there's fire—and that scares me even more. I used to think running away was the answer to all my problems. Then I learned how to fight. I learned how to kill a man. You can't do those things, so here's my advice—fight it, if you can, the way you _know_ how to fight. Fight your King Brother if that's what it takes—don't take no for an answer. Fight until you can't fight anymore—until your dying breath. You might not get what you want, but at least you went down with some balls."

Sansa stares at him, and The Hound flushes. She says, "I can't fight. I'm only a Lady."

"And how do Ladies fight?" The Hound asks her.

Sansa looks down into the pool, which has retained its smoothness now that The Hound was done throwing up into it, her expression a blank slate. The Hound awkwardly shuffles his feet, looks back up at the castle in their midst, and says, "I should be going, Little Bird."

"Thank you," Sansa says, and she stands up, suddenly crossing around the edge of the pond toward him. The Hound doesn't know what to expect, so when she reaches up and takes his face—he recoils at first. Sansa smiles and kisses his bristly cheek. She's tall, but she had to stand on her toes to do this. "Thank you for your council."

The Hound gulps and casts her a half-grin. _Is this my chance? I could lift her up and take her to my room right now—and I bet she wouldn't even resist—the way she's looking at me…_ "Goodnight," He tells her, bowing his head. He rips his eyes away from hers and exits the Godswood, his heart still hammering in his ears. _Good way to get your head cut off, fucking the King's sister. I need to get to bed and forget about this before things get out of hand._


	58. Sansa VI

Sansa

The flame flickering on the end of her candle is nearly at the end of its life, forming a glistening pool of wax around its base. Sansa watches it, her mind wandering. She's dressed in a black lace gown enamored with the Stark wolf. She wore it while she slept because it felt nice and she likes the way she looks in black. _I hope he likes it too._

 _He's coming tonight._ Sansa sent her handmaiden out for him nearly an hour ago, and she was _positive_ he would come… This wasn't the kind of invitation a man like _him_ could refuse. Sansa made sure to tell her handmaiden to make the invitation sound explicit; _It's the only way to be certain_.

She dressed in the mirror, allowing her flowing red hair to drape down the left side of her face. She then parts the neckline of her gown so that her cleavage is on display. As she sits on her bed, waiting, she recalls how Ramsay would tell her to make herself look pretty for him when he came for her in the night. Some nights, Sansa refused…and some nights she didn't, out of fear of the punishment he unleashed whenever she refused The Bolton's Bastard anything.

There's a knock at the door. Sansa doesn't stand up. She stares at her door with a blank expression, hesitating on what she was about to do. "You can come in." she calls softly, glad her voice doesn't betray her inner turmoil.

Sansa steels herself as the door clicks open.

"My Lady, I must admit I am surprised you've invited me here at the hour of the wolf." Littlefinger says, closing the door behind him.

"I want to make a deal with you." Sansa tells him.

"What sort of deal might this be?" Littlefinger asks with a curious smile.

"You must call off our marriage to Jon. I will _not_ be your wife and you will _not_ be my husband."

"A deal usually works both ways. I don't see my end of this bargain."

"In return…" Sansa pauses and leans back with confidence, smiling herself now, "I will make you King of the Iron Throne."

It was hard to tell what went on behind Littlefinger's beady eyes. She can tell he's mulling over whether she was telling him the truth, or jesting. Littlefinger's smile widens as he asks, "My Lady, forgive me but how would you ever manage to accomplish this?"

She beckons for him to join her on the bed. He does so with swiftness, sitting beside her now. She focuses her eyes on his as she speaks, "I have information that could potentially remove Jon from power. If Jon is no longer King then I am next in line to rule Winterfell."

"So is the one you marry." Littlefinger reminds her.

"You won't gain anything from marrying me as long as Jon is King." Sansa tells him, "If I am Queen, however, I will take our forces south, sack King's Landing, remove Cersei's head, and name you King the same way Robert took the throne. They would call you usurper, but you would be the rightful King and I would be your Warden in the North. It's not your perfect picture, but it's better than being married to just the Lady of Winterfell, isn't it?"

Littlefinger studies her face for a moment. "I see. By your word, you would make me King of Westeros. Why not take the Throne for yourself and be the Queen at my side?"

"You know that's never going to happen." Sansa smiles, ignoring her hammering heart.

"There's still one thing I need before I can even consider this deal, the information you claim to have over your half-brother—tell me."

 _I have to tell him or he won't believe me. If I don't now, he'll never agree to this._ Sansa opens her mouth and hears herself say the words, "Jon is not a Stark."

Petyr Baelish chuckles, though his smile doesn't quite meet his eyes. "He is a Snow, this much is obvious, My Lady."

"He is the son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark."

As the words come out, she knows this was the line Jon would consider crossed if he found out. As King he could have her sentenced to death for this betrayal, but Sansa is sure he wasn't quite that cruel. He was no Joffrey or Ramsay, but he ultimately betrayed her just like the rest of them. _Never again._

To her shock, he says, "Ah, so you finally found out."

"What?" Her mask of confidence slips for a second, "You knew?"

He only smirks, "Who do you think I am?"

"How?" _Jon and I only know because Bran saw it in some weird vision_ , she almost says but decides it best not to let Littlefinger know this particular detail.

"I've known for a long time. To be honest I'm surprised not many have realized it by now. Seems such an obvious thing, as things tend to seem in hindsight." Littlefinger says, though Sansa notices he avoids her question. She also realizes that he could have outed Jon at any time. _But then he wouldn't be able to ask him to marry me…_

"If you had proof of this, then I would be happy to make a deal. But I'm afraid there simply isn't any evidence to convince the other Lords…" Littlefinger sighs.

"Howland Reed." Sansa says, "He was there the day Jon was born. He knows the truth. When Bran goes to Greywater Watch and has Howland pledge fealty we can prove it then. Bran can have him come back to Winterfell and give his witness to our testimony."

For the first time, Littlefinger appears to be impressed. "Convincing the other Lords that Jon is a Targaryen and not Eddard Stark's son will be no easy task, My Lady. I must decline, but say thank you for the generous offer."

"There's more." Sansa says, reaching out and taking his hand gently with her own. She can feel his pulse quicken at her touch and saw his smile flicker, his eyes searching her own. "I know what you really want, Petyr, what you've always wanted…" She guides his hand up to the collar of her gown. "You've wanted the Iron Throne for so long and you've worked so hard to get it, let me help you." His fingers begin to pull her clothing down, revealing her shoulders. Littlefinger's expression was impossible to read, he only watches her remove her top, divulging her breasts to him. She leans in closer and smiles when he doesn't pull away.

His kiss is fierce and overpowering. She closes her eyes and allows him to breach her mouth with his tongue _. It's working_ , she thinks as she climbs over him, undoing the breaches of his pants. Before she begins, she stares deeply into his eyes and asks, "Do we have a deal?"

"I'll call the marriage off at once, Your Grace." Littlefinger replies as the candle goes out and Sansa is cloaked by darkness.


	59. Bran VI

Bran

The Godswood is just as he remembers it. The large, white weirwood tree over the pond was now barren of all leaf from the winter. Meera and Jon help him over to it so that he can rest in its groove, remembering how Maester Luwin died in this very spot long ago… _I wonder what happened to his bones. The Boltons must've gotten rid of them…_

"Bran," Jon says, "You know you don't have to go with them to see Howland Reed. I know you want to learn more about my real father and what it all means but it's not safe out there. You might not be able to come back if the winter snows get too strong."

"I didn't need to go beyond The Wall either. But I did because it's what I'm _supposed_ to do, Jon. Please, trust me." He smiles, "Before I leave I want to see what else I can learn."

Jon nods, smiling grimly like he usually does. _I'm going to miss him. I only just got back…_

Bran turns his attention to the weirwood tree. Taking a deep breath, he prepares his mind for what's to come. Reaching out, his fingers graze the roots of the trunk, grasping onto it firmly. A familiar, overwhelming euphoria tugs on his naval. His eyes roll into the back of his head and Bran travels far away…

A great fire is raging over the tops of homes. Dead bodies litter the streets; screams all around him. A dark shadow slithers across the ground and he sees a great, winged serpent soar overhead. " _Burn them all!_ " The Mad King screams from the Iron Throne before a golden-haired man pushes a sword through his back. Bran is pushed from a tower by the same man— _Jaime Lannister_ , Bran suddenly remembers— _it was him, he's the reason I lost my legs._ A baby is crying as a great tower collapses into the ocean. A man with white hair gives a crown of blue winter roses to a woman in the audience after winning a tournament. Both are smiling at each other, ignoring the other people's outrage. A boy is crying under a tree while another boy approaches. Both of them are small. One boy comforts the other, whispering words in his ear. A woman with fiery red hair is being whipped by a brown man with a long beard. Two men in heavy metal armor fight each other in the snow. One is a giant, his face hidden under a golden helm, with eyes as red as fire. The other is almost as big, with half a face and a sword that was literally on fire—clashing with the greatsword. They duel each other as the crowd of men and women around them roar taunts and cheers. A girl without a face dances in wildfire. A man and a woman with long, black hair are getting married under a weirwood tree, standing ankle-deep in snow; they are surrounded by both men and Children of the Forest. The man kisses her and Bran can tell they're both deeply in love, whoever they are. _That's the man who gets Dragonglass shoved into his heart by these very same Children of the Forest later on_ , Bran observes. _Who was he before he became The Night King? And who was his bride? Why did the Children decide to make him the first White Walker? It looks like both Men and the Children are at peace right now…_

A woman with silver hair flies on a black dragon over a sea of men fighting each other. There are hundreds of thousands of them, and when the dragon opens its mouth, they all burn away.

Bran is in the crypts under Winterfell. The darkness seems to be alive as the torches on the walls all die out one by one. He sees Jon walking into the darkness ahead. Bran races for him, trying to reach out and grab him… But Jon disappears… Bran is engulfed in darkness… until one by one, blue eyes open up, encircling him. They get closer and closer. No matter where he looks, there they are. His breathing grows ragged and his skin trembles from the cold. _No, get away from me! Get away! Get away!_

A door appears. Bran flees as fast as he can for it. The door is as round as the moon and made of glass. It shatters as he crashes through, and Bran is met with raging hot fire.

 _"Bran!"_

Reality returns as Bran gasps for air. He is covered in sweat and his eyes leak tears down his slick cheeks. The mark around his wrist is burning painfully, just like when the crack appeared on The Wall. Both Jon and Meera are watching him in horror. "You were screaming for it to stop. I tried to pry your hand off but it wouldn't let go," Jon tells him, "I had to cut off the root with Longclaw. Are you alright?"

Bran reaches out and desperately grabs his brother's hand. "Jon! _They're coming!_ "


	60. The 999th Lord Commander I

The 999th Lord Commander

When the horn blows the first time, Dolorous Edd is riding the elevator up to the top of The Wall. As always, whenever the horn echoes across the wind, it sends ice through his veins. _One blast is rangers returning… but we don't have any rangers…_

The horn blows again. _Wildlings?_ _All the Wildlings are on our side of The Wall now._

The dawning realization arrives with the third blast of the horn.

 _White Walkers approaching._

A deep, rumbling groan shakes The Wall, forcing the elevator Dolorous Edd rides to violently tremble. "Old Gods, New Gods—all the damned Gods, _don't let me die in here_." He mutters to himself, grabbing hold of the wooden beams for support. The Wall is having another quake, only this one keeps growing and getting louder. He hears men down in Castle Black screaming as huge chunks of ice plummet like comets—crashing through the rooftops. Even larger pieces of The Wall are breaking off and tumbling down into the snowy banks below. To his left and to his right, long fissures splinter their way along the ice. _"What the bloody hell is going on?"_

The giant crack that appeared the day Bran came here had grown several limbs, one of which snakes its way underneath the elevator's path. It travels slowly down toward Castle Black and comes to a rest, but just as it does, the ice beside Edd crumbles away. The elevator threatens to fall with it. _Let me get to the top, just let me get to the fucking top_. _Just let me live, just let me live, just let me live…_

Somehow, miraculously, the elevator grinds to a halt. Dolorous Edd opens his eyes expecting to be broken down and facing The Wall's cold surface… Instead he sees the trenches dug into the top of The Wall where a single Night Watchman works the horn. The Lord Commander approaches the edge of The Wall slowly, facing the north… and what lies beyond.

The sky is blacker than he's ever seen it. It's midday, yet night gathers over the snowy mountains, a shadow in the air so unreal, Dolorous Edd is convinced he's going blind. Everything under the shadow is impossible to behold. While the horn blows three more times behind him, Edd's stomach sinks with his heart. _We aren't ready for it, but The Long Night is here._ He turns, telling the man blowing the horn to mount the elevator with him so they might travel back down and inform their brothers… as soon as the last words escape his mouth, however, the elevator relieves a long groan as if in pain. Dolorous Edd can only stand from the top of The Wall and watch as the entire elevator comes teetering down over Castle Black. It crashes into the white earth, no doubt killing another brother or two of his.

The cold winter wind whips his stringy hair around his face, numbing him. Dolorous Edd, Lord Commander of The Wall, looks to the horn blower and says, "Fuck."


	61. Jon IV

Jon

The parapets around Winterfell are blanketed in snow as a light blizzard falls from the sky, reminding him of his strolls atop The Wall. Jon is garbed in his black Stark armor, a wolf's pelt draped over his shoulders to keep him warm. His hair is long enough now to release from its bun so that it can blow in the wind, catching snowflakes. Bran's words from earlier repeat over and over in his head as if some spell had placed them there: _I saw so much, too much, I can't even remember it all. Only pieces of it…_

 _Try, Bran. Please._

 _I saw a dragon. I saw it over a field of snow and men fighting each other. I saw so much death, Jon… and I saw you. You were down in the crypts. You were alone, and before I could get to you, you disappeared into the dark._

After that, Meera had taken Bran to calm down in his room while Jon went for a walk, thinking about dragons, Bran's visions, and The Wall… _If it falls it would take The White Walkers maybe a week to reach us... But with over 5,000 men going to defend it, maybe it will hold… Or it will only add to their army of the dead. Either way, I couldn't just leave The Wall undefended. Half the reason Winterfell has so little food storage is to keep Littlefinger's Knights of the Vale well-fed while they stay at The Wall._

Reaching for the stone, Jon leans against the wall's railing and looks down over its edge. Hundreds of the Free Folk are herding through the gates bearing whatever they can carry. Most are women and children; not many wildling men survived the battle with the Boltons. Jon had ordered his men to help, and was told Winterfell would be at its maximum occupancy after this. Jon told Sansa they had enough rations to last three months… Realistically they had one.

 _We can't survive here. If the long night comes we won't survive._ Jon closes his eyes and sighs. There is still no word from Queen Cersei. If she accepted his invitation up here, she would likely end up wintered here like the rest of them. _She won't come._ _I was a fool to think she might negotiate._ He'd told the other Lords if this happened he would show her no mercy. It was time to live up to those words. _If we won't survive in Winterfell then we will go south. If Cersei will not have peace then we will take her capital by force…_

Even as he plans it out, Jon feels wearier than ever. _But_ _I can't go to war with the south. If we do that we will only weaken ourselves for the real battle…_ Jon wishes Davos was here so he could have someone to talk to about this. Bran is still too young to understand, Tormund hardly comprehends battle strategies, and Sansa… _I can't even look at her anymore. How can I look her in the eye after betraying her trust…? I promised to protect her… and I failed. I'm no better than Littlefinger for marrying her off. I should've taken Littlefinger's head instead, would've been satisfying at least._

His sister appears on the other end of the parapets, her red hair bright amidst the falling snow. Neither of them say a word of greeting. The tension is palpable. Jon frowns and looks back down over the edge, waiting for her to come closer. Eventually her footfalls crunch in the snow until they are beside him. "Lord Baelish has called off the wedding." says Jon, still unable to bring himself to look at her.

Sansa doesn't respond. He feels her eyes watching him, however, so he goes on, "He claimed seeing you safe in your home was more than a reward and told me he felt guilty about arranging things against your will. He even told me to apologize to you on his behalf for putting you through all of this."

"Good." is all she says.

Jon turns his frown toward her now, "You once told me only a fool trusts Littlefinger… Sansa, please, tell me… did you do this?"

"I don't know what you're implying."

Jon sighs, "He was seen going up to your tower last night."

"From who?" Sansa asks angrily.

"Does it matter?" Jon can see he caught her; her cheeks are burning pink and not from the cold. "What did you give him in return for this?"

"I slept with him. I fucked him so I wouldn't have to marry him. It worked. Now tell me who you have spying on me. Is it my handmaiden?"

Utterly stunned, Jon gapes at his sister. "I can't believe you, Sansa… What would father think if he knew?"

"Father is dead." She coldly and calmly reminds him, never looking away. "I was there when his head came off, remember? He's dead so it doesn't matter what he thinks anymore."

"You shame him, just like that? You shame yourself, _for what_?"

"How many times have _you_ been married off like a slave?" Sansa asks acidly, "I did what I had to, maybe it's time you started."

" _What would you have me do, Sansa?!_ " Jon asks, raising his voice over the wind and not caring who below could hear him.

"Take the throne for yourself." Sansa says, "You are a Targaryen by right and I would support your claim. Take the throne, let me execute The Mad Queen myself, and make me Queen of the North while you rule in the South."

Jon shakes his head, chortling. "You think I want to be King of The Seven Kingdoms? I can barely handle being King of the North, and if the other Lords knew I was Targaryen they would have my head."

"Then step down and make me Queen of the North. I will lead us if you don't want to do it."

"You know Bran is next in line to rule after me."

"Bran is a cripple. The North will never fight for a cripple." Sansa tells him.

"You think they'd fight for a woman?"

"They would fight for a Stark who is willing to go to war when she needs to."

Jon smiles at her, feeling a strange pride in his sister. "You're starting to sound like Arya, y'know."

Sansa blinks, apparently unprepared for that, smiling against her will. "Arya isn't here, but she would tell you the same thing. If you don't want to rule, then don't. You never asked to be King. Step down and make _me_ the Queen."

For a moment, Jon truly considers it. It would be a huge relief to dump his responsibilities and forget about everything... "I can't," He tells her and regrets saying it, for the hope in Sansa's eyes diminishes "I have to try and make peace. We need them on our side, not fighting us."

Sansa turns away from him, facing the sky. She looks sad, and Jon can tell there's more on her mind than she's letting on, but doesn't prod her. "I'm sorry I judged you right away like that," He tells her, "I don't blame you for what you did. I love you, Sansa. I need _you_ on my side more than anyone. Can we move on from this? Please?"

Sansa smiles and allows Jon to hug her. "Yes." She says softly in his ear, "I can move on from this."


	62. The Hound IV

The Hound

They gifted him black, Stark armor and a proper longsword, as well as a horse that appears weathered yet strong and capable. Once he is packed, The Hound makes his way down to the courtyard where Tormund Giantsbane and the two little ones are waiting for him, surrounded by about a hundred small-folk and soldiers all seeing them off. The blizzard has settled but the wind is still sharp and ice-cold on his exposed face. The Hound sneezes out a fat glob of snot in front of everyone before joining Tormund at his side.

"Didn't think you'd show." The wild, red haired man says in a deep growl, eyeing his new armor.

"Thought _you'd_ be gone already." Sandor says back with a sneer.

"I would've, but I didn't want to hurt your feelings."

"I'm fucking _touched._ "

"If the both of you are going to be like that the whole way we'll find someone else to take us." Meera scolds them. Despite her size, both giant men are cowed by her.

Jon Snow appears, along with Lady Sansa. The Hound froze when he saw her. _Little Bird looks different today_ , he thinks to himself, studying her face and noticing her eyes are on him as well. _What does she look so damn guilty for?_

"We've come to say farewell." Jon tells them, looking down at Bran with a sad smile. Sansa swoops in and hugs her little brother, whispering him a goodbye. The Hound looks away, feeling as though he is intruding, and instead reflects on the last time he visited Winterfell so many years ago… back when he was Prince Joffrey's dog. _Wasn't so snowy back then_ , he muses, scratching his chin while the King in the North gives Bran a hug as well.

To his immense surprise, Sansa approaches him next. For a moment, they just stare at each other, until she rises on her toes and kisses his hairy cheek again—this time over the burned side of his face, her hands grasping his armored shoulders for balance. Sandor's cheeks burn, and he backs off from her once she is done, glaring at her. "No need for that, Little Bird."

"I just wanted to give you _something_ …" Sansa tells him earnestly, "You've done so much for me already. I would Knight you myself if you wanted it."

"Don't want to be a Knight, remember?" Sandor snarls, "I've got nothing better to do and this way I have a place to stay for the winter that isn't The Wall."

"You're always free to stay here even if you didn't agree to do this, and you know it." Sansa tells him, "I am in your debt, Sandor Clegane."

"Fine, if it'll make you feel better." She smiles at him and he gives her a half smile back. "Stay safe, Little Bird."

"I'm not a Little Bird anymore," She tells him, "Farewell and stay safe to you as well."

Sandor turns to Jon and says, "You take care of this one, you hear?"

"I will." Jon promises, "Keep my brother safe. Whatever it takes. I will pay you whatever you desire on your return—I swear it on my honor." He looks down at Bran and continues, "When you meet Howland Reed, tell him to come to Winterfell. I will send him a raven myself to let him know ahead of time you're coming. I will explain to him, and every northern Lord, that I am calling a summit for the North's next move. Even the Brotherhood without Banners is invited if they claim to support me as you say, Clegane."

The Hound nods. Before they leave, Sandor hears Bran whisper something to the King that brings his expression to fear. _What could the little Lord say to make the King piss his pants?_ The Hound wonders, though it's really none of his business so he pushes it from his mind. He casts Sansa one last, longing glance—and is filled with a strange, rumbling joy to find her watching him as well. _Goodbye, Little Bird. Don't fly too close to the sun…_


	63. Brienne IV

Brienne

In the dead of night, a light wakes Brienne from her slumber. She grumbles, winces, and sees Howland Reed standing over her pit with several other Crannogmen, holding a torch. "Help her out of there." she hears him grumble, and they lower a vine for her to climb up with. She struggles at it, both of her hands raw and bleeding from wrestling the lizard-lions every day. Brienne lost track of how many times she's won. It was becoming the highlight of her day. The problem is her hands and the wound on her arm, both feel as though infection was settling in. When she is finally out on flat, solid earth, she is forced to her feet with both her hands pinned painfully behind her back. A cool blade slides across her throat and rests there, a mere flick of the wrist away from spilling Brienne's life blood all over her feet and putting an end to the last of her miserable days.

" _Run out of lizards for me to fight_?" She seethes at Howland defiantly, for the old man rarely shows his face at the Mud Games, " _Done with me now?_ Fine. _Kill me_ , just _end_ it."

"Not yet, I think," Howland Reed says, "Not unless you force us to. Tell me, Lady Brienne, how would you like to walk out of here tomorrow, a free woman?"

"I want my sword back." She says through gritted teeth, the pulse in her neck pounding against the blade's edge.

Howland Reed shakes his head. "You're in no position to bargain. The sword belongs to another now." A part of her dies at these words… and all the rage and defiance puddles in her heart. _Oathkeeper… No… I'm a failure… I'm so sorry Jaime._

"What do you want from me?" She asks weakly, staring down at the mud in defeat.

Howland tells her, "I need a woman, not a warrior."

"You have a woman," Brienne says, "The Red Woman."

"She is not fit for this duty anymore…" Howland frowns. Brienne's curiosity spikes at this, but Howland continues, "How about we prolong this discussion somewhere inside the keep? Come. Let her go. If she tries anything, she knows what will happen."

 _Do I?_ Brienne eyes the three men around her and wonders if she could take them. Howland is small and frail, not a challenge in combat. These men are equally weak-looking and small, though their spears and daggers pose more of a threat than Brienne's infected hands. _I can't fight them… I have to go along with this and see what he wants…_

When Brienne is shown into the giant tower of Greywater Watch, Brienne finds herself surrounded by three gigantic, well-aged, white weirwood trees; their leaves almost dead yet still retaining their red hue. Each tree has carved faces bearing down at her with bleeding eyes… The rock walls that structures the tower is lined with tangled vines and moss that helps blend it in with the huge trees outside. Outside the giant stone doors is a dense, blinding fog. _Nobody can find this place… I'm completely alone out here…_

Howland Reed leads her up a flight of rocky steps to the second level of the tower where a fire is burning in the hearth sending a column of smoke up through a chimney. Sitting beside it is a bundled heap of red robes. A head of white hair shies away from her, like a turtle withdrawing into its shell. _An old woman? Who is she?_

"The Lady Melisandre." Howland tells her, as if he heard her thoughts. Brienne's jaw drops as the old woman turns and she sees a creature unlike anything Brienne has seen before. More of a witch than an old woman, with skin hanging from her bones, her hair in strings, and one eye that is larger and twitchier than the other; Whoever this thing is, she no longer resembles the once beautiful Red Woman Brienne knew.

"I… I don't understand." Brienne stammers.

"This is her true form." Howland says with a heavy sigh, "I suspected as much when I saw her necklace. It was the same with the priestess that cured my greyscale…"

"What happened?" Brienne asks, scared to approach her.

"Our new King purchased it from her as part of the payment to our agreement."

 _"He stole it."_ The old hag moans, beside herself with misery as the flames dance and cast shadows across her ugly face.

Howland grimaces, not with disgust but pity. "She hasn't left the fire since. I suspect she won't last long without her necklace."

Brienne feels a swell of satisfaction seeing The Red Woman like this. "Serves her right."

Howland glares at her with menace. "King Euron will never take her now. My plan has come to an unexpected halt and I find myself in need of a woman like you."

"You have lots of women here. Use one of them." Brienne spits at him.

"The King will not accept any of my women. He has standards, unfortunately. You are the closest I have to what I need." Howland approaches her, forcing her to look into the deep, dry cracks that scar his face. "Infiltrate Euron's camp as a whore. Tell him you're willing to do anything. When you have the chance give him this." He reveals a flask of silver liquid between mutated fingers. "Bring him back to us alive, and you will go free as promised."

"You expect me to do something _this_ dishonorable? " Brienne reproaches with horror, "You're just as bad as Melisandre and Stannis… Using tricks to win battles."

Howland seems annoyed with her when he says, "You can either accept this deal or go back to that pit and keep fighting lizard-lions until the end of your days. Trust me, there's always more."

"Do you really think Euron would take a woman like me into his bed?! Look at me!" She shows her hands to him, and her wounded arm. "I look like I just escaped a torture chamber and you think he'll want to lay with me?!"

"You'll be surprised. Scars and blood won't bother the likes of his kind. It will just turn him on."

"It won't work." Brienne growls at him, "Look at me! Look at my face! Do you know what men like him call me? _Brienne the Beauty!_ The ugliest woman alive…"

Howland shakes his head, smirking at her. "Do you think I don't know what that's like? Look at _my_ face, Brienne. You have more beauty than you realize. You're also a very _big_ woman. My feeling is King Euron will see you as more of a challenge, which will give you the opportunity. Knock him out with _this_ , tie him up, and in the night, bring him back to us without warning his men. Once you've brought him out of their camp, _my_ men will be waiting for you."

"No, I can't… No way." Brienne refuses, glaring him down, "I will not betray my honor just to escape your heartless games. Find another way."

"Is it because you're still a _virgin_?" Howland asks curiously and she gawks at him. "My apologies, I only presume."

" _That has nothing to do with it!_ " She snaps stiffly, "I will not do this."

Howland's eyes study her, searching for some answer she would not give him. "If that is your answer then fine. But consider this, Sansa Stark is alone in Winterfell without anyone there to protect her. What happens when Queen Cersei decides she wants Sansa's head on her walls?"

Brienne imagines Sansa being taken away… "Jon Snow will protect her."

"Jon _Targaryen_ will betray her the first chance he gets." Howland's voice trembles with righteous anger as he says this, "Word is, he wants to make peace with The Mad Queen. What will happen when Sansa's head is the cost of that peace? Do you want to spend the rest of your days in a pit full of your own shit and blood? Or do you want to be by your Lady's side when she needs you?"

 _Sansa… What should I do_? Trying to decide was tearing her heart apart. "I won't sleep with him…" Brienne says slowly.

"You won't have to if you're _good_. Just give him this potion and he will be asleep quickly enough. Wait until his guards are distracted and escape with him. You must bring the necklace he stole from the Lady Melisandre, as well. The necklace and the King…"

 _I can't believe I'm agreeing to this._ _My honor will forever have this scar if I agree…_ She wonders if this is how Jaime felt before stabbing the Mad King in the back, and remembers him asking her once; _what would you do if you had to choose between your oath and your family?_

 _Sansa is my family now…_ _I swore to protect her until my last day…_

" _Fine_." She grimaces, disgusted with herself, "I'll do it."

The amount of pleasure on Howland's face disgusts her even more. "Good, Lady Brienne. I'm glad you can see reason. I'll have your injures taken care of before you go. With good fortune, this will be the last time you ever see my ugly mug."


	64. Daenerys IV

Daenerys

"Are you _positive_ you're alright?"

"I'm _fine_ , Jorah… Sit with me." Daenerys gestures to the edge of her bed. Her Knight's eyes narrow as he takes a seat beside her, careful to keep his blackened arm away from the bedspread. Ever since he returned to her, Jorah Mormont is careful not to let his new, magical hand touch anything that might catch fire. It made making love with him more difficult than she anticipated—but they make it work. For the last three nights, Jorah shares her bed. His hand, as black and grotesque as it is, never touches Dany while they embrace each other passionately—until Dany throws caution to the wind and takes his hand in her own after their last encounter between the sheets—catching Jorah off guard. Ever since, he's constantly worried he might've infected her with Greyscale, even though Kinvara insists that's no longer possible.

"If you feel anything… see anything… you have to let the Red Woman know." Jorah restlessly tells her. "She's the only one who might be able to fix it if the infection returns."

"It won't return." Dany smiles, touching his cheek with her palm. "I love how concerned you always are for me."

Jorah smiles and relaxes. "It can't be helped, Your Grace."

"Please, don't call me that, not while we're alone together."

"Forgive me, would you prefer _Khaleesi_? _Breaker of Chains?_ Or perhaps _Mother of Dragons_?" Jorah jests, cracking a giggle out of her.

" _Dany_ is fine," she says, "You should feel comfortable addressing me informally. I've known you longer than everyone else in the entire fleet."

"I know," Jorah can't hide the pride in his voice, "Three years ago, we met on your wedding day to Khal Drogo. I'll remember it for the rest of my days; you, sitting beside that beast of a man, appearing so afraid you might pass out or leap from the nearest cliffs, before being gifted those three dragon eggs… Something changed in you after you got those eggs. It was like watching a flower bloom. I remember…"

"Back when you were a spy for Lord Varys." Dany adds, her smile falling a bit. Jorah reacts with a terrified, pained look, so she takes his hand in her own to calm his worries. _If I look back, I am lost._ "Have no fear, Jorah. You wouldn't be sitting here if I didn't forgive you for it."

"I am grateful beyond words, Your… _Dany_." Jorah smiles, though his eyes are still searching her face for any sign of unhappiness about his past digressions. "May I ask you something?"

 _Why must we talk so much? Can't we just enjoy ourselves?_ Dany wants to say, instead she just says, "Go ahead."

"You've taken men to your bed before, men like Daario Naharis, and then cast them aside without love…" Jorah glances down in shame of himself, "You know I love you, Dany. I've killed for you, and I'd die for you if need be. Forever and always, I am yours… but I _must_ know, are you mine as well?"

Daenerys was dreading having this conversation, and initially withdraws from him, unable to bring herself to stare into his desperate, longing gaze. She places her attention on a dolphin swimming by her window, allowing herself to get lost in its pale, lonely beauty… _I know what he wants me to say… but I can't lie to him, not to Jorah. He deserves the truth._ "Jorah…" She hesitates, trying to choose her words carefully, "When I take the Seven Kingdoms, and rule as Queen, I will need to marry someday. That is why I left Daario behind. As much as I care for you, as much as I love having you share my bed… I cannot be with you publicly… I cannot love you the way you love me." She can tell that by the end of her answer, Jorah's heart is broken. Tears glisten in his eyes, and Dany wonders if she'll ever get used to doing this to the men who love her. _Perhaps it's better not to love at all, so I might never have to hurt anyone this way again…_

"I understand." Jorah can't hide his disappointment from her though, so she pushes him down against her bed, taking his face in her hands. As she straddles his midriff, a sad smile slides across his face. "I take that it was the Dwarf's idea to leave Daario behind so that you are free to marry?"

"You brought me that Dwarf, remember. He was _your_ gift. You cannot fault me for taking his advice. You would have given me the same advice had you been there…" Dany holds back, trying not to sound accusing. Switching tones, she leans her face between the crook of his neck, nibbling on his flesh. "Just because we won't be married doesn't mean we can't enjoy each other…"

"For as long as we _can_ , you mean… Until you find a proper, more suitable husband…" Jorah pushes her away, and Dany sighs in annoyance. _He still can't let this go, can he?_ Jorah gulps, hesitating, then asks,"If we can't truly be together then what are we doing? Why do you want me?"

"I don't know why I want you." She tells him truthfully, "You've been my closest friend for so long. You've betrayed me then came back to me and saved my life. Then, after catching a life-threatening disease, I commanded you to heal yourself and return to me… You did just that. How could I not want a man who risks so much just to be by my side?"

"I did…" Jorah glares down, as if in shame, at his black, cracked, left hand. "I haven't told you what the Red Woman did to cure me…"

"Tell me." Dany leans over him, stroking the cracks that infests his arm; perplexed by the unnatural warmth pulsing beneath his flesh. "Unless you don't wish to tell me…?"

"It's better you not know, I think." Jorah says, though he remains sounding unsure of himself, "It wasn't my will... I was snatched up and taken by them—I had no idea Victarion wanted to use me the way he did until it was already too late… If you knew what she did—what I was forced to do—you wouldn't want me."

"Then tell me, Jorah, and I'll prove you wrong." Dany smiles, and she kisses him deeply, tasting his tongue against her own. She really is dying to know now. Not much is known about the Red Woman and her abilities. Dany decided to keep Kinvara on board for the time being, in case she needs her later. Tyrion said she was part of the reason they had so much success uniting the people in Meereen…

Jorah doesn't tell her. He does roll her over, however, and remove the thin, light layer of clothing still hiding her body from him. Descending southward, licking her breasts, his rough, callused, ordinary hand gliding down between her legs—Dany stops him and tells him to use his new, magical hand on her this time. "I'm not so sure that's wise, Khaleesi."

"Do as your Queen commands, Ser Jorah." She playfully tells him, needing to satisfy her own curiosities.


	65. Tyrion IV

Tyrion

Designing a saddle for a crippled boy to ride a horse was, at the time, quite an achievement considering the invention didn't exist until Tyrion came up with it. Designing a saddle for a dwarf to ride a dragon on the other-hand, is an entirely different concept all-together. While Bran and Tyrion are roughly the same size, a dragon and a horse are nowhere near as close. One has four legs and runs on the ground. The other has two legs— _and two enormous wings_ —and flies at least a hundred times faster than any horse could dream of moving. _I'm no expert, but with the right craftsman, I should be able to have this thing made in a month; after we sack King's Landing…_ Tyrion closes the drawn plans into his desk and locks it shut for another day.

For the rest of the day, Tyrion Lannister makes his daily rounds; collecting information from scouts and regulating any disturbances that might arise between the men. The Dothraki and the Ironborn were having a lot of trouble working together… Considering the last thing they need is upset Dothraki out at sea, Tyrion readjusts them so that neither Ironborn nor Dothraki share the same ship. The Horses as well were having difficulties, not having the space they need to roam. Tyrion decrees that they lead the horses up on deck to stretch their legs. It leaves a mess of horse shit and dirt for them to clean, but at least their mounts would be prepared for the battle ahead. Then there's the Martell and Tyrell soldiers, who are all despondently nervous without the presence of their Queens as well as the influence of Dany's dragons, whom many are still not used to. Tyrion assures them Lady Olenna and Ellaria will both be present shortly, for soon the fleet would pass by Dorne where the Stepstones wait to hinder their progress for King's Landing. As of now, their fleet is sailing past the Free City of Lys on an island to the south—barely visible to the naked eye. Tyrion has Yara Greyjoy take scouting parties to raid the seas for any passing sailors near Lys, just to be safe. _The female Commander of the Ironborn seems eager enough, but her brother, Theon, does not. I wonder what he looks so glum about lately?_

With nothing better to do with his afternoon, Tyrion does some investigating. After Yara returns from her scouting to report, Tyrion pulls her aside as she leaves Dany's War Room aboard _The Red Wind._ "Do you mind telling me what _exactly_ is wrong with your brother?"

Yara gives him a look of surprise and suspicion. "What do you care?"

"I know he was tortured by Ramsay Bolton. I want to know what happened to make him this way because… believe it or not, I sympathize with cripples, bastards, and broken things; even _if_ they used to be arrogant pricks."

He earns a smirk for that comment. "Theon is still an arrogant prick, he just doesn't know it. Hard to be a prick when you don't have one."

Tyrion allows his shock and horror to show on his face. "That explains it then."

"Aye. Want some advice, Dwarf? Don't bring it up with him; it won't end well for either of you. He's having a tough time… adjusting."

"I can… _imagine_." _Though I don't really want to._

" _Can_ you?" Yara's glare is piercing, "I mean it. Theon needs to forget the past and move on with his life. Eunuch or not, he's still my _brother_. Understand?"

But Tyrion isn't about to give up, not with _this_ revelation brewing inside him. So, he finds the two Eunuchs he knows best to enlist their aid, Varys and Greyworm. Standing aboard _The Red Wind's_ bow as night gathers, Tyrion explains to them his plight; receiving a puzzled, raised brow from Varys, and a confused, sour look from Greyworm.

"I don't understand?" The Commander of the Unsullied says in his deep, monotone voice.

"The Hand wants us to help young Theon… regain his confidence." Varys explains with a sly smile at Tyrion, "I'm not entirely sure why?"

"He's suffered enough. He deserves some kind of happiness before he likely dies fighting in King's Landing." Tyrion says to them, "I was hoping either of you might have some words of wisdom you might share with Theon, give him some hope that he might live on to find love so that he doesn't lose his wits in the middle of battle."

"Are you implying all eunuchs are witless cravens?" Varys acts aghast, but Tyrion knows he's only teasing him.

"No. As you both clearly can tell, I'm terrible at telling eunuch jokes. I would sit him down and talk about it myself but I don't think I could last a minute before trying to break the tension with a laugh about missing cocks or something."

"It's true," Greyworm says, "You make too many cock jokes."

Just hearing the words " _cock jokes"_ come out of Greyworm's lips was worth this entire endeavor, but Tyrion isn't satisfied. "Greyworm, you and Missandei are together, are you not?"

Greyworm blinks. Perhaps if he knew how to, he would blush. "No. We are not together."

" _Really?_ You should be by now. What's taking you so long?"

"I'm a eunuch. We can'tbe together."

"You don't need a _cock_ to be in love." Tyrion says, "Or are you going to stand there and tell me you don't feel anything for the lovely Missandei?"

"I don't want to talk about this." Greyworm says curtly, trying to bow away and exit but Tyrion swiftly steps in front of him. "Out of my way."

"All I'm asking is for you to speak with Theon about his affliction— _err, sorry_ , that's not the right word to use." Greyworm scowls and Tyrion grins, backing up from him now. "You know what I mean. Tell him about you and Missandei—make something up if you need to. Maybe share some helpful tips on how to live life without your genitals?"

"Move or I move you." Greyworm warns him, so Tyrion moves.

Tyrion and Varys watch him go, and the shorter of the two releases a pent-up sigh through his nose. "Well, I imagined he wouldn't help. What about you, Varys? Any ideas?"

"One." Varys coos, "I can ask around the other ships and try to find any young ladies who don't mind spending time with a man who has this _affliction,_ as you so aptly put it. It is not unheard of for the Unsullied to find whores to sleep with—if only for someone to hold them while they fall asleep."

"Sounds truly awful." Tyrion grimaces, grateful Cersei never pinched his cock off when he was a babe. "Do it. Tell me once you do. If you can't find a decent looking girl willing to do the job then I'll pay them handsomely for it, just have them come to me. I can't save Theon's cock, but I might be able to help save his pride."


	66. Jaime IV

Jaime

The further north he travels the colder and snowier it becomes. Jaime Lannister rides in upon the Twins of House Frey, where snow lightly gathers over the bridge between both towers, covering the other side in a white powder while the southern side remains green and dry. _I've never seen such a stark difference in weather before… Winter will reach King's Landing before long…_

Jaime debates traveling the Kingsroad to Winterfell and just staying in inns along the way, but before Jaime had the chance to leave the capital, Cersei saw him off one last time, commanding him to pass through The Twins on his journey north to inform Lord Walder Frey she summons him to bend the knee to her and offer as many men as he can to her army… _Even now, hundreds of miles away, I'm still her bloody puppet…_

Just to rub it in his face, Bronn's head was placed on a spike above the city gates. He saw it, as it's the only head up there, and it had been put there specifically to remind Jaime… _Now I am alone, and more vulnerable than I've ever been._ Bronn was more than just his friend, he was the man he counted on when it came to a fight. In Dorne, Jaime would've died if not for Bronn. In Riverrun, having Bronn at his side at least allowed him someone to talk to—a friend. Now, Jaime is on a mission to slay _another_ king, and the one person he could look to for help is gone…

A strong, foul smell meets his nose and Jaime winces. Even his horse whinnies in protest, slowing down to a trot the closer they draw to the Twins. Up ahead Jaime witnesses a column of smoke rising into the sky beside the river. Voices are chanting as well… Jaime stops as he comes in sight of the giant pile of bodies burning in a great fire, men surrounding it, crying in unison, " _The night is dark and full of terrors_!"

 _What the hell is going on?_ Several of them see his horse approaching and suddenly everyone around the burning bodies is drawing their swords. He sees a man with an eyepatch he vaguely recognizes approach with another man with long, wild hair that Jaime _definitely_ recognizes.

"Kingslayer. To what do we owe the pleasure?" asks the one with the eye patch. He looks tired and uninviting. Jaime suddenly remembers.

"Beric Dondarrion and Thoros of Myr." Jaime greets with narrowed eyes, "The Twins belong to the Freys and the Freys are allies of House Lannister."

Thoros says with a smirk, "The Freys are dead."

 _What? Already? I was just here…_ "You killed them?"

"Aye." Beric says, "The Twins belong to the Brotherhood without Banners now, hence they belong to the King of the North, not The Mad Queen of the South."

Jaime smiles sardonically and says, "Fine. The Freys were a stain on society anyway. I have no use for them or this bridge."

"Some would say your sister is the stain on society, Kingslayer." Says the one Jaime recognizes, Thoros of Myr, "Why have you come here… all alone?"

"Just passing through to visit your King on the Queen's behalf." Jaime lies, "I come alone because bringing an army is an act of war. I bring terms of peace."

Beric and Thoros cast disbelieving looks at each other and Jaime gets an uncomfortable feeling they aren't going to make this easy on him. _I should've kept to the Kingsroad, Fuck the Freys and fuck my sister's commands._

"I find it hard to believe you come with terms of peace." Beric admits, "Your sister's reputation has spread almost as quickly as the wildfire she used to usurp the throne."

"She was the King's mother. There was no usurping of any nature, I assure you." Jaime tells him.

Thoros chuckles. "Whatever helps you sleep at night, mate."

"I don't much care what you people believe right now." Jaime snaps, his rage bubbling to the surface. Perhaps it is pent up aggression toward Cersei, but Jaime can't tolerate any more of this horseshit. "I have important business in Winterfell and if you won't let me pass I'll just go around." As he turns his horse around, he finds himself facing a man ten feet away with a bow and arrow directed at his chest.

"Anguy never misses unless it's on purpose." Beric warns him, "I wouldn't make any sudden moves if I were you, Kingslayer. You've made a grave mistake coming here alone."

" _Have I?_ " Jaime frowns, "You do realize I am the Queen's brother and if any harm were to come to me you would have 40,000 Lannister soldiers breathing down your neck from both sides of your little bridge within the week, so how about we negotiate?"

"First, dismount your horse. We'll be taking her for the time being." Beric says and Jaime submits, landing on his feet and glaring at the men who take his horse away. "Help me understand something, Kingslayer. Who is _truly_ behind the Red Wedding? Walder Frey was a vile, scheming, old man but he was not smart enough to plan something like that. It was your father, was it not?"

"Whether it was or wasn't, I had nothing to do with it." Jaime snarls.

"The sins of the father are not the sins of the son, this is true." Beric admits, nodding, "However, you've committed a great many other crimes, haven't you?"

"What about _your_ crimes?" Jaime asks, "Brotherhood without Banners… Sounds more like a group of thieves and bandits to me, worshiping some fire god. What right do you have to judge my past, Dondarrion?"

"It is the Lord of the Light who will be passing judgement down, not I." Beric says, "For your crimes against the North and the House Stark I hereby sentence you, Jaime Lannister, to trial by combat."

 _Brilliant._ "Listen to me, my sister would have the South and the North at each other's throats right now and I'm the only one in King's fucking Landing that wants to try and stop her! You have to let me through!"

"You may leave free of all charges once the Lord has passed his judgement down." Beric tells him dismissively, "You are known as Kingslayer for pushing your sword through the Mad King's back. You never received a trial for it, because King Robert pardoned you."

"The only crime I committed that day was not killing him sooner." Jaime seethes, "A King pardoned me which means there is no need for this!"

"A King is not a God. You've fought against Eddard and Robb Stark, you've murdered your cousin, you've allied yourself with the Freys, and you took Riverrun from the Tullys. These are all crimes that must be answered for."

Jaime gathers there is little hope of convincing him otherwise, and decides to go a different route. "May I have a handicap then?" He asks, lifting up his golden hand, "As you can see, I'm at a bit of a disadvantage."

"Aren't you supposed to be a legendary fighter?" Thoros teases.

"Try losing a hand and see how easy it is."

"I am a man of honor." Beric says, "I will fight you with one hand tied behind my back. Will that suit you?"

"Suits me fine, though I'm surprised you would fight me yourself, Dondarrion. Aren't you getting a little old?"

"I might surprise you."

"As a man of honor I expect we won't be fighting in the middle of the night like animals? How about you let me stay the night. Allow me a last meal and rest so that we can both fight our best in the morning?" Jaime suggests.

"I wouldn't trust him." Thoros mutters to Beric, smirking.

"I don't. But he makes reasonable requests and there is no immediate need for this. The men are hungry and so am I. You're welcome to dine with us tonight, Kingslayer, but in the morning your trial commences."

"Splendid." Jaime sighs. _Damn you, Cersei._


	67. Cersei V

Cersei

Sitting at an end of the Small Council table in-between Qyburn on her left and Lord Randyll Tarly on her right, The Queen listens, growing more irritated, as her Hand recites an overwhelming amount of information to the room.

"My Little Birds have informed me Lord Walder Frey, and his House, are dead. The Twins belong now to a group of bandits and thieves; The Brotherhood without Banners, Your Grace. They have been quiet up until now, but my sources tell me their once dissimilar crew has become an army to be reckoned with."

" _The Freys are dead."_ Cersei repeats, "We'll find another more capable House to guard the Neck then and take back those towers. Perhaps Ser Addam Marbrand? Or is Jaime there by now?"

"If he is then chances are he did not survive his encounter… One man against an army…" Qyburn grimaces, "Hopefully that's not the case."

"If so, then make sure your Little Birds hear about it. I don't want my brother's death falling on deaf ears. He deserves at least a proper funeral." Cersei commands, though her tone is indifferent, and her Hand gently nods. _I never expected him to survive or return to me with the Stark's heads anyway. If he does then it'll be a welcome surprise, but if not…_ "What else have you brought me?"

"The King of the North is gathering every Northern House, large and small, to Winterfell for some kind of summit. This invitation extends to the Brotherhood of the Twins, Your Grace, which means the Twins will be left undefended—or at least more so than right now. We could potentially take the towers back from them, if we had a force large enough to do so in the area… unfortunately the only one close enough is—"

"Riverrun. How many do we have stationed there?"

"There was two thousand Lannister and Frey soldiers, Your Grace." Answers the Lord Commander of her army, Randyll Tarly in a deep, gravelly voice. "But after news reached of their leige lord's death, the Freys at Riverrun deserted. So only one thousand, Your Grace."

"What of Littlefinger and our Knights of the Vale? Surely, they are close enough to take back the Twins. Any word on their movements, or is Littlefinger still hiding in the shadows like the craven he is?" asks Cersei impatiently.

"Your Grace… The Vale has proclaimed fealty to The King of the North. They are currently in Winterfell as well as defending Moat Cailin, according to my Little Birds… though reports from the north are not as accurate with the time delay between ravens…"

 _That treacherous little worm!_ Cersei's fingers dig into the armrests of her chair, and if it was her throne she would be bleeding again. "I should have known he would betray me. The little liar and his little schemes have lived long enough. I want his head, not today, not tomorrow—but soon—Who can we send to accomplish such a task, Qyburn?"

"Without any way of reaching your brother, Jaime…" Qyburn shrugs.

"Your Grace," Randyll says, "I know of a way…"

Cersei smiles warmly to him. "Tell me, Lord Commander."

"The Faceless Men in Braavos. For a _personal_ price, they will kill any man you pay them to." Randyll speaks as though he's experienced in the matter, so what he says next doesn't surprise her. "I hired one recently, to take care of… family matters."

"Your _dead_ son, perhaps?" asks Qyburn, but Randyll only scowls at him in response. Qyburn says, "The Faceless Men are renown for their indiscretion. Nobody would know you were the one to hire the assassination… If you need, I can send them a raven? Braavos is right across the Narrow Sea from the Vale. It wouldn't take long for them to carry out the task, if Littlefinger returns from Winterfell. Though I imagine they would ask a high price, knowing it comes from the Crown's pocket... I'm under the impression they usually require a personal item of worth from the person hiring them-what should I offer them, Your Grace?"

"If gold is not enough for them then I'll offer them lands, titles, women, whatever they desire. If they expect a Queen to give them anything _personal_ then I'll find someone else who can do the job for less. I wish you'd suggested them sooner, Qyburn. I might have requested their aid instead of sending my brother north to certain death." Cersei narrows her eyes at her Hand and he shifts uncomfortably in his chair, glancing over to The Mountain standing guard at the door. "Send them a raven and make sure they know they can set the price. Whatever they want, they shall have it. I want Littlefinger's head served to me on a spike…"

"There's more news, Your Grace." Qyburn mutters, clearing his throat, "The armies of Highgarden and Dorne are no longer marching north... It seems they've disappeared entirely…"

 _What?_ "What do you mean? 30,000 men don't just _disappear_ overnight."

Qyburn explains, "The Tyrells were last seen crossing Bitterbridge on their way northeast for King's Landing. The Martells were last seen camping just north of the Dornish Marches near Ashford, also on their way northeast. Suddenly, they packed up and left without notice—my little birds lost track of them, I'm afraid…"

"Then what good are your little birds, Qyburn?" Cersei grumbles, "How do they just lose sight of that many people at once?"

"Their armies never continued north, this much I know for certain, or they _would_ have seen them, Your Grace. All I can guess is perhaps they plan on meeting together somewhere and joining forces in the Grassy Vale before marching through the Kingswood, but my Little Birds are searching everywhere and they're gone… vanished, as though the Gods plucked them out of existence."

Cersei sighs, rubbing her temples. "What else might they be up to?"

Randyll speaks up, the most experienced at marching armies. "I don't know the Martells but I know Lady Olenna and the Tyrells will wait for the right moment to strike. They know their army doesn't stand a chance against ours. They may be trying to sway our own Bannermen against us. We're still waiting on the arrivals of Houses Blackwood, Bracken, Crakehall, Farman, Lefford, Brax, Banefort, Swyft, Estren, and Westerling. As for our other allies, Mallister, Piper, Vance, Smallwood, Mooton, Whent, Paege, and Goodbrook, are in the capital and ready to serve. With the death of the Freys, Lord Edmure Tully is somewhere out there, and his once loyal bannermen are grumbling about this. Some have offered me excuses to leave the capital..."

"I want our allies defending my city walls, for I am their Queen. Have Lord Edmure found. If you think any of my allies are plotting against us I want them brought before me on their knees. Call all of our allies here at once, Lord Hand." Cersei feels as though she's being closed in on all sides with her back to the sea. _The King of the North is calling a summit and the South is joining forces against me. Fools, the lot of them. They can all burn in wildfire. I'll never give up my throne._

"There's more, Your Grace." Qyburn says sheepishly, "For the last few nights, more and more of our soldiers are being slain while on patrol. The Rebellion, no doubt, but their movements are astoundingly precise. My Little Birds have yet to catch whoever it is in the act, but I'm beginning to think the Iron Bull himself may be responsible."

"Why is that?" Cersei asks.

"Every guardsman's corpse I've inspected has the same wound—a small hole through their neck, nearly invisible to the naked eye—as though a needle had pierced them. This is one man's work, and if anyone is responsible, it's the Iron Bull."

"Unsurprising. His rebellion is made of starving beggars, just like the High Sparrow, only without power all he can do is throw rocks at my feet like a child." Cersei smirks, "Your Little Birds are slacking, lately, Qyburn. Work them harder or I might have to start taking their heads away from them."

Qyburn just stares blankly at her before nodding. "Understood, Your Grace. I have one last thing—something you requested earlier…" He lifts out a package wrapped in fine cloth from between his robes and Cersei takes it. It's about as long as her forearm, to her great anticipation.

"Does it work properly?" She asks him, examining the cloth's lion embroidery. Randyll Tarly, too, is giving the strange package a curious raised brow.

Qyburn nods, "As far as I can tell, yes… I believe I designed it the way you wanted; you'll have to try it yourself, and let me know if it needs… _adjustment_."

"What is it?" Randyll asks gruffly from across the table.

"None of your concern, Lord Tarly." Cersei answers with a pleasant smile. She excuses them and bids herself goodnight, leading The Mountain out of the room and up the stone flight of steps to her private chambers.

Inside, bound to her bed and completely nude, is the handsome, young man, Dickon Tarly.

" _Your Grace!"_ cries Dickon with excitement, his hands and feet tied by rope to the corners of her wide, crimson bedspread. His cock is half-erect just by the sight of her. Cersei likes that, and glides toward him, setting her wrapped gift down beside one of Dickon's legs. She purposefully presses her breasts to his chest and bites his lips without warning.

"Can I please be untied? I need to visit the privy for just a moment, Your Grace." Dickon begs her in-between her ravenous kisses. She pulls away from him, smirking, and silently unties him. Dickon bolts out of the bed and flees for the privy down the hall, Cersei watching his muscular butt flex with every step. He disappears, and Cersei stands, removing her clothing and crown, and unwraps Qyburn's gift. Cersei goes to her mirror and examines herself, naked, in the glass. She pulls the device's harness up her legs like she's pulling on a pair of small-clothes. Black leather clings tightly to her waist, digging into her flesh. She pulls on the strap until the device yanks on her groin as tight as it can, and Cersei exhales with pleasure.

When Dickon Tarly emerges from the privy, Cersei is hiding behind the partisan. "Tie yourself back up, Dickon." She calls to him, unseen. Dickon grins and climbs anxiously back on board the bed, fastening his ankles to the ropes again—

"Stop. Not like that. We're going to try something… _special_ this time."

"How do you want me, Your Grace?" Dickon grins.

"On your hands and knees." replies Cersei.

Dickon casts the partisan a queer, confused look, but does as she says and ties himself to the bed on his hands and knees. He's tall, but he still needs to stretch in order to reach each rope, making this position already rather uncomfortable for him, with his right hand still left waiting to be tied up by his Queen. Cersei emerges, smiling from ear to ear, her breasts naked for him to behold… but Dickon's eyes are on the long, black, leather, cock-like protrusion strapped to her groin.

"Uh… _Your Grace_?" Dickon's eager face plummets in fear.

"You wish to be in my Queensguard, don't you Dickon?" Cersei asks, guiding Dickon's hand into the last rope and yanking it tight, trapping him there. "After this, you'll be one of them." She pours a small amount of olive oil over her palm and coats the mummer's cock until it's greased up and glistening. "Just for tonight—" She guides her new toy between the folds of his unsuspecting asshole and thrusts as far as she can inside of him, releasing an anguished howl out of young Dickon's lips— " _I get to be the man_."


	68. Theon IV

Theon

A beautiful girl approaches him from across the deck of his sister's flagship, and Theon doesn't know what to do. _There's nowhere to run—we're on a bloody ship! Why is she staring at me like that? What does she want from me? Is she going to try and hurt me?_

 _Yes, Reek—good—I taught you well, you know better than to fall for this woman's tricks._

"Hello," She says, her fetching eyes penetrating his own. She's copper-skinned with black, braided hair tied behind her head. _She must be a Dothraki._ "Are you Theon Greyjoy?"

 _It's Reek, wench. Reek!_ Theon gulps before answering, "I am."

She nervously smiles, and Theon feels a pleasant, familiar urge crawl up his nether region… it transforms into pain when it reaches the place where his genitals used to be. _She's beautiful but I can't have her. I can never have another woman again. Why must she taunt me like this?_ "What do you want?"

"I'm sorry it took me so long to find you. My name is Ornela. I am a widowed Khaleesi of the Dosh Khaleen." She moves closer to him, still acting nervously shy toward him despite her advances. Theon, confused and afraid this was a trick—wheels his head around, searching for Ramsay Bolton to find where he's hiding. Ornela says, "I was told you are Eunuch, like the Unsullied?"

Theon backs away from her, convinced now he's being played with. "Who told you I'm a eunuch?" He asks, glaring at her. She recoils, confused as well by his reaction toward her.

"I-I don't remember his name—he's fat and bald and smells funny… He's a eunuch too, they say."

 _Varys, The Spider._ Theon scowls. "So, what then, he paid you to come pester me?"

"No, Lord Theon, he paid me to comfort you tonight…" She gives him a sympathetic look that catches him off guard, but Ramsay's eager voice is still shrieking in his mind: _Don't trust this bitch, Reek. She just wants to see what the scar between your legs looks like so she can go and tell all the other Dothraki whores._

"What do you mean, _comfort?_ You already know I have nothing down there to comfort."

"There are other ways of comforting, others techniques I've learned over the years…" She is still staring at him with pity. "The Unsullied have been known to seek brothels, you know. They pay not for sex, but for companionship… someone to sing to them and cradle them when they fall asleep… I could do that for you… If you want me to…"

"That sounds horrible." Theon spits, "You don't even know me."

"You're a Greyjoy. An Ironborn…"

"And you think that somehow means we have anything in common?"

"I like fish?" She smiles, trying to lighten the mood with a jest, but Theon isn't having it.

He turns away, dismissing her from his sight.

Storming down beneath the deck of his ship to find his sister, Theon replays what just happened over and over in his head, his groin aching. In her cabin, Theon finds Yara indisposed with two other women, one a whore from Lys, another is a Dothraki girl, this one is muscular and intimidating, unlike Ornela. Theon enters then immediately shies away at the sight of his naked sister, her legs around the head of the whore while her tongue plays with the Dothraki girl's breasts. Yara eyes Theon's entrance with annoyance, but doesn't tell him to leave. "Never heard of knocking? What do you want, brother?"

"Did you tell anyone about my… _condition_?" Theon asks her angrily.

Yara scowls, releasing her attention from the breasts before her eyes. "What did the Dwarf do now?"

 _The Dwarf?_ "It wasn't him. It's the Spider."

"The Dwarf and the Spider are best of friends, or haven't you noticed?" Yara rolls her eyes. "I informed The Hand of the Queen about your missing cock because he asked, alright? I warned him not to bring it up."

" _You told him!?"_ Theon gapes at her. _Now the whole fleet will know, Reek. Hahahaha!_

"Calm down, baby brother. All of our men already know thanks to Euron. I'm surprised Tyrion and the Spider didn't know, considering their reputation. What happened?"

"They bought me a whore." Theon says, running his hand up through his curly hair and groaning. "Well, not a whore, but a woman to comfort me, like I'm some sort of child… She's a Dothraki girl."

Yara snorts and smacks the ass of her Dothraki companion, who smiles and nibbles on her neck. "You're telling me you've got your britches in a knot because they bought you a whore? The Theon I knew wouldn't be standing here crying to me right now, he'd be fucking that whore all night long and letting everyone on board hear about it."

" _I can't do that anymore!"_ Theon cries, "I'm not the Theon you knew from back then, Yara. How can I lay in bed with a woman and let her… _see_ down there?"

"Let these ones look and they'll tell you what they think?" Yara suggests, "This Dothraki bitch is honest to a fault. Go on."

Theon absconds before it can escalate from there, running back up on board the deck, sweating profusely. _Curse that dwarf for doing this. I never asked for this. Why? Why must I be tortured every waking moment?_

 _Because you're Reek!_


	69. Jaime V

Jaime

The dining hall where Jaime had sat with Walder Frey a month ago, celebrating their victory over Riverrun, is now a desolated chamber that reeks of dead bodies. Jaime is given a table near the head of the room next to Beric and Thoros, the latter of whom is pouring wine into his goblet every five minutes. Jaime recalls how Thoros was a mad drunk, and an even madder fighter when he _is_ drunk. After a few cups, Thoros and his distrust for Jaime evaporates like magic and the two begin to bond over their old war times together, just as Jaime hoped would happen. _If I can get Thoros to convince Beric to let me go, perhaps I can still get out of this unscathed. I'm confident I can handle a duel with Beric… but then again, when was the last time I had a proper duel? Eddard Stark in the streets of King's Landing I think… Every other time I was bound, or in the heat of combat… A one on one duel is different, it requires patience, skill, and the art of knowing your opponent._

"Those Greyjoy shits didn't know what hit them!" Thoros cries, exploding with hysterical laughter as Jaime chuckles along with him, though his smile doesn't quite meet his eyes.

"When you charged in there with your flaming sword, Balon's men were pissing in their armor."

 _"You're shitting me!"_

"I shit you not. I heard it, the sound of water rattling against steel, right before you cut them down."

Thoros of Myr is the type of man who can't contain his laughter, and when he's drunk it's even worse; Jaime brought the man to tears. Just like the old days. Jaime would go drinking with Thoros when he was a Kingsguard for Robert and Thoros was his Red Priest. Robert himself would join them on occasion, much to Jaime's disdain.

Beric Dondarrion, on the other hand, is sober and eating quietly, listening to them jest. Jaime only knows him by reputation as the once loyal warrior who ran his little bandit gang. _I could probably now convince Thoros to let me go but Beric won't fall for any of this foolery. I have to try something else._

"Tell me something, Beric, what makes you so loyal to the King of the North now?" Jaime asks him from across the table, "I thought you people only followed Gods."

Thoros and Beric share another knowing look. "I've seen him, our King." Beric says, "In the flames. I've seen him battling the real enemy."

" _In the flames? Real Enemy_?" Jaime sneers. "Don't tell me you believe all this nonsense."

"Don't mock the Lord of Light, Ser Jaime." Thoros drunkenly says, wagging a finger at him, "I've seen it myself."

"You'll have to show me this trick, Thoros, never knew you for one to have visions in fires."

"I wasn't… until I met him." He nods to Beric.

"The Lord of Light, do you know his true name, Kingslayer?" Beric asks.

"Can't say that I do."

"Across the sea he's called R'hllor. He is the promised God, the one who looks after the world and eradicates its shadows."

"Wish I'd known. Would've saved me the trouble of learning about the Seven growing up."

"This is no joking matter." Beric's tone is grave, and Jaime lets his mask of merriment slide.

"I apologize." Jaime nods, "Go on. Tell me more about your Lord. Can you prove that he exists?"

"His will is with us all, whether we like it or not." Thoros mutters sadly.

"You are a man who believes what he sees with his own eyes, are you not?" Beric asks him.

"I suppose I am, like any man."

"Not every man sees with his eyes." Thoros grunts. "Some will deny what they are seeing until the end of their days because it'll make them feel safe."

"In the morning perhaps you will get your chance to see with your own eyes the Lord of Light's will." Beric says, in a tone that suggested there is no negotiating out of it. "Maybe you will become a believer yourself, Kingslayer."

"I doubt it." Jaime takes a sip from his wine, his eyes scanning the room. Several brotherhood men are standing guard, watching them eat and drink… Jaime couldn't take all of them at once… But in the night, he could possibly try something while they slept…

"Whatever happened to Edmure Tully?" Jaime asks, suddenly remembering the prisoner beneath the Twins.

"We released him." Beric says after some noticeable hesitation.

Jaime blinks, letting his disbelief show. "You released a Lord? Do you have any idea how much profit you could make from selling him off or keeping him a hostage? I'm supposed to believe you just let the Lord of Riverrun escape without anything in return?"

"We are not the bandits you think us to be. The men who spread shame to our name have been executed. Edmure Tully had no use to us, and the Tullys are loyal to the Starks." Beric tells him.

"Well he has nowhere to go. Riverrun is controlled by us now." Jaime says, knowing there is a sizable garrison of Lannisters and Freys still stationed there. If Edmure returned, Cersei would hear of it, and he would be their prisoner of war once again.

The large doors groan open behind the guardsmen and Anguy the archer strolls through in a hurry. "Lord Beric!" He cries, "We've got a man coming from the north, says he's with the King and needs our help. You should come see him."

Beric wipes his mouth off and stands, curtly nodding to Jaime and Thoros, who both abandon their cups and follow him. Jaime would've liked to use this opportunity to escape, but Beric insists he keep up as ten Brotherhood guards surround them. They cross the bridge outside over to the other tower. Inside they come upon an older fellow, nearly naked and frostbitten from the cold. His grey beard is powdered with snow, and his eyes are bloodshot when he stares up at them.

"Who are you?" Beric asks.

"D-D-Da-Davos S-S-S-Seaworth, m'lord." The man stutters as Anguy hands him a cloak to cover himself with. "M-M-Many thanks."

"Come by the fire and warm yourself, Davos." Beric invites him over to the stony hearth that once belonged to the Freys. Jaime pieces together that whoever this old man is, he'd been robbed, most likely by bandits.

"The King of the North sent you?" Beric asks, and Davos shakes his head.

"N-N-Not here. G-G-G-Greyjoys."

Thoros gives him his own cloak and his goblet of wine from earlier, which Davos drinks like a starving child. "Now we know why you're naked. What mad quest were you on, seeing the Greyjoys for?"

Davos turns his head again, wincing. Jaime says, "He can't speak properly, give him a moment."

 _"I c-c-can speak just f-f-fine, thanks_!" Davos snaps at him sharply, swallowing some more ale with a thirst. "Jon S-S-Snow s-s-s-sent me there. It's p-p-private matters I can't share, but I thank you f-f-for allowing me in if it's all the s-s-s-same. I expected to find the Freys here and I w-worried… But I c-can't say I know who you people are."

"We're loyal to House Stark. That makes us friends." Thoros tells him cheerfully.

"They're the Brotherhood without Banners." Jaime says, rolling his eyes.

Davos frowns at Jaime. "Do I know you?"

"Don't think so. You'd know." Jaime smirks.

"You're wearing L-L-Lannister armor."

"I am indeed."

Davos glares at Beric and Thoros. "What's a Lannister doing here if you serve the Starks?"

"Receiving a trial in the morning." Beric says, "You speak to the Kingslayer, Ser Jaime Lannister."

The look on the old man's face humors Jaime to see. It's a mixture of shock and anger, though Jaime has grown used to it now. "Kingslayer… here? W-Why?"

"Until your new friends took it over it belonged to the Freys and they _were_ loyal to _us_." Jaime looks at Beric as he says, "I should've trusted my gut instinct and never gone to see this rotten place again."

"Why are you traveling north?" Davos asks.

"To speak with your King. My sister sent me." Jaime lies, finding it easier and easier to say the more he said it. _If I told them I'm actually assigned to assassinate their King and his sister, I doubt I would even stand a trial—that bowman would just fill me with arrows as soon as I confessed._

Davos stands up, nearly allowing the cloaks to fall off his naked form in his haste. "What is the Queen's response? Is she here as well?"

"I'm afraid I came alone." Jaime sighs, annoyed. "But I need to speak with your King, urgently, and these men are keeping me here to perform some religious trial by combat."

Davos frowns, "Well, perhaps not. Beric, you've saved me from the winter. I owe you my life. But may I make one more request?"

Beric studies the old man's expression. "Speak it and we'll see."

"Allow him to go free with me so he might speak with our King. _It is more important than you know that this happens!_ " Davos looks desperate, like a man who'd travelled the Seven Hells and only now found some hope of escape. "I beg of you, Beric! If you are loyal to Jon, then you _will_ let this happen!"

"You trust a Lannister?" Beric asks him.

" _I trust my King_." Davos replies. "We need the Lannister's help for the true war that is to come against the White Walkers. You and I and our King all know this."

"Then you shall have it. The Lord of Light sent you here, Ser Davos, as they sent us here and the Kingslayer here as well. None of us were together not long ago yet here we are." Beric says, smiling, "However, the two of you will not be traveling alone, I think. The Brotherhood without Banners received an invitation from our King earlier today, and I intend on being there for his war summit."

 _I can't believe it._ Just like that, Davos had rescued him from their clutches of insanity. _How?_ When Beric and Thoros leaves the two of them beside the fire, (with two guards instead of ten, which is an improvement at least) Jaime sits down and says to Davos, "I owe you a debt."

"Aye." Davos agrees, and is given water and bread from a serving wench. He eats it with haste, eyeing Jaime wearily. "I got lucky coming here. The Freys wouldn't give me their hospitality if they were still here. But I didn't have a choice. I'd die from the snows if I tried hiking it back to Winterfell with nothing but the hair on my back to keep me warm…"

"Luck has its moments. I was _lucky_ you came around when you did." Jaime smiles. "Seriously. Thank you. I don't know if you noticed, but…" He lifts up his golden hand, "I can't exactly fight the way I used to."

"Then we got that in common. I can't fight worth a damn anymore." Davos says, swallowing a huge chunk of bread.

"Listen…" Jaime hesitates, wondering how much he can truly trust this man. "When I see the King, I don't know what you expect of me… but I know my _sister,_ and Cersei won't be willing to have any kind of alliance with someone who calls themselves King of the North. Is there any chance I can convince Jon Snow to step down from his title?"

Davos just grins, bread peppering his beard. "No chance of that either, I'm afraid. But I'm confident we can work out an arrangement. You'll see. Jon is a reasonable man."

"I wish I could say the same about Cersei." Jaime says, and glances over his shoulder to check if the guards overheard him—still paranoid about Cersei finding out about any slight against her, Jaime blinks, blushes, and remembers the letter Jon sent her. "You are serious then, about this… army of the dead?"

"I'm afraid so, yes. I can't say when, but they're coming. When they do, we can't be fighting each other. We need to help each other or we won't survive." Davos is sounding stronger the longer he speaks, and less like the shriveled, naked man he appears to be. "Will you help us?"

 _Cersei will never go for this…_

"I'll see what I can do once I've spoken with Jon Snow."


	70. Tyrion V

Tyrion

Never has he seen the war room this packed full of people. Ever since the flagships for the Martells and Tyrells arrived while their fleet took anchor at the Stepstones, _The Red Wind_ had become crowded with serving men and women, most of whom belong to Lady Olenna Tyrell. Dany ordered them all to remain out on deck so only the Highborn and Commanders are left at the table. Tyrion sits beside his Queen with his Hand badge pinned to his chest so everyone could see. On her other side is Jorah Mormont. He's wearing heavy, plated armor and a sword. _Always ready for battle, that one_. Jorah's left arm is covered in a sleeve of chain mail, so as not to disturb their guests. Missandei stands behind Daenerys, ready to serve at her will. Next to Tyrion is Greyworm. He too wears his armor, though Tyrion doubts he will ever see the warrior without it. _Greyworm and Missandei are casting each other nervous glances_ , Tyrion notices. On the other side of the table sits Yara and Theon Greyjoy. _He still looks like a sad sack. Can't blame him. If I lost my cock, I'd need all the help I could get finding a reason to go on…_ Finally, there's Varys, who sits at the far end of the table, his hands hidden beneath his sleeves, pleasantly smiling at the newcomers standing in their midst.

Before them is Lady Olenna Tyrell and her three handmaidens whom she dismisses at the door with a flick of her stiff hand. "Mother of Dragons." Olenna greets, bowing her head to the Queen in respect. "I must admit, before I saw your fleet on my horizons I half-believed The Spider to be spinning me a web of lies. _Fire and Blood_ , he told me. _Ha!_ I trusted my gut. I sent you my ships. Now here you are." She smiles, her aged, beady eyes gleaming at Dany.

"I appreciate everything you've been able to spare, Lady Olenna." Daenerys says, "My advisers tell me you are an invaluable ally. Thank you for coming today."

Olenna's eyes blink to Tyrion at the Queen's side. "Your advisers? Ah, yes. I remember you, Lannister."

"For my good looks, no doubt?" Tyrion jests. Olenna does not return the smile. _She's a fickle one. She had no love for me before and certainly won't have any going forward, especially after what Cersei did to her family._

It was not the Tyrells Tyrion worries about when it comes to scorned families, however. When Ellaria Sand enters next, she's accompanied by her three daughters—Obara, Nymeria, and Tyene Sand, otherwise known as the Sand Snakes. Her daughters are supposed to wait outside, yet Ellaria doesn't seem to care about formalities or Dany's rules. She strides briskly into the chamber with her head held high, her serpentine eyes planting firmly on Tyrion instead of their Queen.

"You must be Ellaria Sand." Daenerys greets. Before their meeting, Tyrion informed Dany about his… _relationship_ with the Martells. He told her about Oberyn, and the tragic death he suffered at the hands of The Mountain… all for Tyrion's sake. " _The Martells have despised the Lannisters since you were a baby. There is a chance my presence will cause friction between us_." Tyrion warned.

"It is a pleasure to finally meet you." Ellaria says to her, still glaring at Tyrion. "What is he doing here?" The other Sand Snakes are glowering at him as well.

An uncomfortable sting burns his eyes, feeling their hatred. _These women are famous for poisoning their enemies._ "He is my Hand." Dany says as Tyrion reaches out and clutches his goblet of wine, deciding it was safer in his hands than out on the table.

"He is a _Lannister_." Ellaria seethes, "I was not informed he would be here."

"Would you have come if you were?" Tyrion asks her.

Ellaria shakes her head and glares at Varys, who smiles innocently back at her. "I thought we were here to defeat the Lannisters, not break bread with one. I will not stand here with this little _Imp_ in my sight. He is the reason my lover is dead."

"If there is a problem, allow me to address it now," Dany sharply says, standing up. "Tyrion Lannister is my Hand. I will not hear anything more about his past or his family's crimes. Ellaria Sand, I invite you to take your men and leave us if that is what you wish. If my Hand upsets any of you that much then you may go." Tyrion glances wearily up at Dany, worried their plan might not work.

Ellaria Sand looks ready to spit. "I sailed here from Dorne. I sent you ships and soldiers, and this is the gratitude I get?"

Dany smiles. "You act like you're entitled to something. Tell me, who is the Queen in this room?"

Ellaria doesn't respond at first. She is stiff with anger… and frozen with fear. Tyrion knows they witnessed Dany's dragons on their way here. It was part of the plan.

Tyrion leans to her and says, "Daenerys, maybe we should—"

"Who is _the Queen_ in this room?" Daenerys repeats.

"You are." Ellaria answers, trembling.

"You sailed here from Dorne. You sent me ships and soldiers… then you come into my chamber and insult my Hand, therefor insulting me, and you expect _gratitude_?" Dany narrows her eyes. "Thank you for all the help you've given me. If seeing Cersei Lannister pay for what she did to your paramour isn't something you care about then I don't need you."

The Princess of Dorne is shaken by these words, and Tyrion's honestly surprised when Ellaria Sand abruptly falls to her knees and arches her head in shame, tears spilling out of her eyes. "I apologize, Your Grace…" She cries as all three of her daughters gawk at their mother. "Forgive me… _Forgive me of my insolence, I beg of you! Oberyn was everything to me!"_

"You poisoned Myrcella, did you not?" Tyrion asks calmly, remembering what Varys informed him on his return from Dorne. Ellaria's horrified face tells him everything. "The reports say she died on the ship home from Dorne… they say Jaime, my brother, was right there with her when it happened. Apparently she dropped dead, blood pouring from her nose. My niece was sixteen years old when you murdered her…"

" _Mercy_!" Ellaria weeps, her face an ugly mess. "Mercy, _please!_ I-I only did what—"

"You then ensued to stab your Prince in the back." Tyrion sighs, "If Oberyn could only see how far you've fallen. I wonder what he would think if he knew the woman he loved had murdered his brother?"

Obara Sand steps forward and snaps, "None of this would have happened if _your_ family never crossed _ours_!"

"It's a good thing we aren't all held accountable for our family's actions." Tyrion replies, "Otherwise the three of you would be just as liable as your mother. Then again, there is the inexplicable assassination on Trystan Martell's life that occurred on his way to King's Landing that nobody is questioning." Obara scowls at him, irritably gripping her spear.

The Queen of Thorns tuts, "You lot really are snakes, except you're all tangled together in a knot. Honestly, Ellaria…"

Ellaria lifts her face to Dany, pitiful and desperate. "Please, My Queen. We will do anything you ask. I swear of it! We will be loyal to you!"

"How can I trust someone with a reputation for betrayal?" Daenerys asks her softly.

"All I care about—all I'll ever care about until the day I die—is seeing that wicked whore, Cersei, _suffer!_ " Ellaria wipes her eyes angrily. " _Let me prove my loyalty!_ Allow my sand-snakes to take the Mad Queen's head!"

Daenerys turns to Tyrion and asks, "How large of an army does Dorne have?"

"Roughly 40,000."

"That's quite a force." Dany admits. "How large is our army in total?"

"Eight thousand Unsullied, three thousand Greyjoys, sixty-five thousand from the Tyrells, and one-hundred thousand Dothraki. With the Martells that adds up to over two hundred thousand."

"So about twenty percent." Dany states, "That is how much value you have, Ellaria Sand. Twenty percent. I don't _want_ to lose twenty percent, and I know you don't _want_ to give up on your revenge." Ellaria nods, her eyes shining with hope. "Swear your loyalty to me for all to hear. Devout yourself to me… and I will give you another chance."

" _I do!_ _Your Grace!_ _I swear by the old gods and the new to serve you!_ _Thank you_!"

"Last of all, your Sand-Snakes. I will not have them interfere in my rise to power. I will be the one to bring down Cersei, _not_ any of you… however, you all will bear witness when I do… This much I can promise you." Daenerys Targaryen approaches her so that Ellaria Sand is at her feet when she says, "If you ever betray me, insult my Hand, or give me any reason at all to question your loyalty—I will give _your_ children over to _mine_."

The fear takes seed in Ellaria's mind as Dany's threat washes over her. Tyrion smirks, drinking his wine, knowing for now at least the Martells would be on their side. _And I won't have to put up with any more clever insults._ In war, you have to make _sacrifices_. Tyrion wants nothing more than to have this woman executed for murdering Myrcella, who was innocent and far too young to be involved in their terrible game… _Sacrifices are a bitch._

Ellaria Sand stands, wiping her eyes, and is allowed a seat at the table while her Sand-Snakes stand over her dutifully. Dany turns to face all of her allies standing in the center of her chamber. "Once again, thank you all for coming. I've waited my entire life for the day I take back my home from the people who stole it from me. Today is not that day. Soon, the capital will be on our horizons, and I've called us all here to discuss and strategize. My Hand will begin."

Tyrion clears his throat and looks up and down the table, receiving mostly frowns. _Oh how they must hate waiting on me._ He takes another drink from his wine, glaring down at the map of King's Landing displayed across their table. "Right." He says, gathering his wits, "As someone who was once Hand of the King and defended the very city we're about to sack, I believe I do have some wisdom on this matter, just to make that clear." He eyes Ellaria especially hard as he says this, "I also have a lifetime's worth of experience dealing with my sister's evil schemes. It is likely she is expecting an invasion from some enemy or another—but most likely it's from the north or west and not us. Which means the western walls will be the most heavily guarded at first… however, when she sees us coming this will change. After our parlay, I believe she will move her entire army to the eastern wall over Blackwater Bay, where she believes the battle will begin. In reality, the largest of our forces will be on land waiting for the right moment to strike. The Lion gate and the Gate of the Gods will be completely undefended for our combined forces of Dothraki, Martell, and Tyrell soldiers."

" _If_ you're correct in knowing your sister's battle plans, then this _might_ work." Ellaria impetuously grumbles. "But why parlay with your sister? Why give her the chance to strike you down while you're out in the open?"

"I know her better than any of you." Tyrion points out, raising his cup again for a drink. "She won't risk anything with a dragon breathing down her neck."

"I also have ten working trebuchets, six expertly crafted ballistae, and two weathered but usable battering rams ready to go," Lady Olenna pipes in, "As well as a few siege towers. However I think we may not need any of that. I might have an ally within the capital as we speak. No doubt Cersei believes he is on her side, but if I know Randyll Tarly, he will see my sigil and the size of our army and piss his armor."

Tyrion glances wearily at her. "Are you saying there's a chance we can get him to open the gates for us?"

"Yes, I do believe he will. He doesn't know we're coming, but when he does, Randyll Tarly won't risk his life for Cersei's when he knows he can survive by joining me. After my Margaery was _blown up_ and Cersei stole the throne I knew that Randyll would slither his way into the courtroom to gain what little power was left for him to have. His family however has always been loyal to the Tyrells. If he proves me wrong then we'll knock the gates down and I'll see him hang, so there's always that. I believe I confused Cersei's Little Birds with my army's movements. I made it appear like we were marching on King's Landing when in reality I was sending out private parties to meet with House's Bracken, Swyft, Crakehall, Florent, Caron, Swann, Smallwood, Hewett, Tarth, Connington, Ashford, Ambrose, Fossoway, Rowan, Redwyne, Oakheart Merryweather, Kidwell, Farring, Graceford—and a few others not worth mentioning as I'm droning on and on already. Anyway—they've all agreed to join our cause and lend us soldiers, as well as food and horses. Swyft, Crakehall, and to my surprise, The Brackens, were loyal to the Lannisters before Tommen fell, but now agree that the Mad Queen needs to pay for her crimes."

"I have also brought many loyal Bannermen to our cause," says the disgraced Ellaria Sand, still wiping her wet cheeks with a cloth, "Yronwood, Uller, Allyrion, Blackmont, Qorgyle, Dalt, Fowler, Santagar, Gargalen, and House Vaith have all lent soldiers for the battle."

"How many men is that?" Dany asks, overwhelmed by the number of Houses on her side, unaware just how small most of them actually are, to Tyrion's amusement.

"It adds another fifteen thousand to our ranks, Your Grace." Varys answers her.

"Blackwater Bay will be the thick of the battle." Tyrion goes on, pointing on the map. "When Stannis invaded I had wildfire shipped out to meet them. A single arrow ignited half his fleet, and that was only a small portion of it. Cersei has hundreds of clay pots and barrels filled with the stuff beneath King's Landing. She proved she was willing to destroy her enemies with it when she destroyed the Sept of Baelor. Cersei would go even farther to prevent us from taking her throne away."

"How far?" Dany asks.

Tyrion finishes his goblet of wine. "They can fling the pots of wildfire down on us from the walls, sure. There are more sinister ways of defending your city, however. She would have every house, every market, every stable, every tower, every wall—secretly housing it. If one of our dragons were to ignite a single barrel—it could cause a river-effect of green explosions unlike anything King's Landing has seen before."

"Where does she store this Wildfire?" Jorah Mormont asks with a dark look.

"The labyrinth underneath King's Landing. It goes under every building in the city, only the bravest can travel through without direction." Varys sighs, "We need to solve this problem before it becomes one."

"Agreed." Tyrion nods, eyeing Daenerys. They'd discussed this part earlier as well… much to her grief. _I know you don't want to do this, but it's necessary._

"Ser Jorah," Dany addresses, "You will take a small team underneath the city the night before the invasion. You will find a way to stop the wildfire from going off."

"Dany… Your Grace…" Jorah stammers, "I think my place is better off at your side."

"Your place is where I need you to be." Dany tells him, not unkindly. It wasn't the Queen who decided this was the best use for Jorah… Tyrion reaches over and refills his cup with the pitcher of wine, a guilty grimace on his face, and Jorah scowls again his way, knowing. Dany continues, "Varys has informed me he knows a secret passage outside the city to get you in. He will guide you there. Find the cashes of wildfire, kill whoever is setting them up."

"We don't even know they'll be down there at all. What if I find nothing?"

"Then we will have the men search every building and find every casket we can." Tyrion sighs, "Regardless, we need a team down beneath the city so we know where she's keeping it for certain."

"If I may," Varys says, "It is likely she is using my Little Birds to do her bidding. Her Hand, Qyburn, is a wicked, vile man. I would only beg that if it is children down there you find, to please show them mercy…"

"I don't make a habit of slaughtering children." Jorah growls irritably, glaring at Daenerys. "Forgive me, but why me? Why not Greyworm? Or the Greyjoy lad?"

"Greyworm and Theon are commanders of their own units in the battle." Daenerys tells him apologetically. "I need them to lead their soldiers and storm the gates."

"You need _me_ by your side." Jorah replies.

"There will be no discussing this any further." Tyrion says, taking another drink of his wine, "You've been given an order, Mormont. I advise you take it."

"I take my orders from the Queen, not you."

"The Queen has given you an order, did you not hear?" Tyrion asks scathingly. He feels Jorah's scowl digging into him. "Infiltrate, sabotage, then get out. There are vats of sand over the tunnels that hold the wildfire. Release the sand and the wildfire will never be a threat again. When your mission is complete, then you can join the battle above."

"Where will you be during the battle, Your Grace?" Yara asks.

"Defending the ships in Blackwater Bay with my dragons." Dany smirks, "If my Hand's theory is correct, there will be 30,000 Lannister and 20,000 Tarly soldiers waiting for us on the walls and behind the gates. That far outnumbers the 10,000 that will be attacking the bay-side. Which means they will need support."

"Unfortunately, we cannot use the dragons to burn all our enemies away like we did with Victarion's fleet." Tyrion points out, "After-all, we're trying to take the city, not burn it down. Focus your fire on the wall alone and leave the city itself be. That way if there is wildfire in the homes and markets, we won't ignite them all by accident. We don't want to be burning the Commonfolk we're trying to rule over. Can you control your dragons well enough to restrain them?"

It's the first time he's asked her this. Daenerys nods. "My dragons won't do more than I tell them to."

"You're sure?" _It's also important that everyone in the room knows._

Daenerys says, "They listen to me. When I ride Drogon the others follow. If I fly to the Red Keep, they will follow, or stay by my command. If I stay to the walls, they others will as well. They won't harm anyone unless I give the command to."

Tyrion swallows another mouthful of sour wine, remembering the rage in Dany's eyes when she shouted, " _Dracarys!"_ and burned away Victarion's fleet... _Let's hope, for the sake of the innocent, that you are right._


	71. Arya VIII

Arya

A little boy on the street is dirty, hungry, and starving. He begs for food from everyone that passes and receives only hateful glares. Another little boy happens across this beggar boy, and sees he is in need. " _Do you need help?"_ the little boy asks the beggar boy. The beggar boy says he does, and asks for any food. The little boy tells the beggar boy to follow him, so he does. He follows the boy all the way to the tower of the Hand. There, the beggar boy seizes up in fear and tells the other they're not allowed inside, but the little boy insists and leads him around to a special passageway that travels down beneath the tower into the sewers. " _The Hand is my friend. He can help you. He helps all of us."_

And that is how Arya met the Hand of the Queen, Qyburn. They're in the same room Arya followed the Little Birds to several days ago, so she isn't surprised at all when she enters the narrow dungeon chamber full of Qyburn's strange experiments. When she sees him, she has to remind herself that she is playing a boy and not to break character. She sniffs, wiping a tear out of her eye, acting like the starving, beggar boy she needs to be. Qyburn has his back to her, facing a group of dirty children. Even though they are all much younger than her true age, she is small enough to fit right in. "Good work today, Little Birds." Qyburn is telling them, handing each one a small basin of colorful treats. "The Queen is very pleased with your swiftness." The old man turns and notices her, offering a friendly smile. "Who do we have here?"

"I found him," says the boy who led her here, "He's hungry like I was, and you said to bring any like him in if I found them."

" _Ah!_ Well done, little one." Qyburn swoops to her, and Arya smells a strange stench come off from him—putrid like the smell of death. He leans down and looks her in the eye. "What's your name?"

"Lommy." Arya tells him, sounding desperate and starving, "My name's Lommy, Ser! Please, do you have any more of those tasty looking treats?"

The Hand of the Queen chuckles and nods, bringing her over to the table where the rest of the children all huddled around, digging their fingers into their candies like rats. Arya watches, swearing to herself she would free them once this is over and find them a home, for they did not deserve to be this man's slaves. As Arya is given a bowl, she acted just like them, rummaging her fingers through the candy and stuffing it into her mouth like it is the first time ever eating something so delicious. Qyburn watches her with a fixated stare. "How long have you been in King's Landing, boy?"

"All me life, m'lord." She squeaks, throwing in a flea bottom accent to her boy voice.

"Where are your parents?"

"Dead. Both of 'em." She says, "Both starved to death a few weeks back. Now it's just me…"

"Well, Lommy, I am very sorry to hear that." Qyburn tells her, patting her shoulder. "Do you like those treats?"

 _"I do, very much!"_

"Would you like to have food and treats and all you could ever want to eat and drink every day?"

"Yes m'lord, I would."

Qyburn smiles wickedly, and Arya can tell he is giving her the same sell he gave all the rest. _Except I'm the one fooling him this time._ "Don't worry, Lommy. I will take good care of you. In return, how would you like to play the same game the rest of the children play?"

"What game is that?" Arya asks.

"Well you see, to earn this special privilege I'm giving out, all you have to do is tell me everything you see and hear throughout your day. Every day from when you wake up until you fall asleep, I want to hear everything you've heard, even if it's the most mundane of details. You will be part of my Little Birds and sometimes I may even ask you to carry out a special task… Are you willing to do this for me, Lommy?"

She pretends to think about it before she nods and says, "I think I can do that."

" _Splendid, young one!_ You'll never starve for food again as long as you're with me." Qyburn's grin is sickening to behold. She wonders how many of these kids had fallen to prey to sicker games on his mind. _Just try something, old man. I'm ready for you._

Qyburn turns and looks to the rest of the children, twenty in all, and clears his throat. "Now that we're all together, has there been any updates on the whereabouts of the Iron Bull's hideout?"

At first nobody moves or says a word. Arya panics. _What if one of these kids has seen me with Gendry?_ _Calm down, I'm a little boy just like the rest of them. Even if Arya Stark is seen nobody will know it's me._ One of the little girls raises her hand, her lips covered in chocolate.

"Yes?" Qyburn smiles at her.

"Last night, I was down by the docks when I heard someone talk about the Iron Bull." The Little girl says meekly.

"What did they say?"

"They were talking about him having two horns like a demon."

"Well we know those are false reports." Qyburn sighs, "But I thank you nevertheless."

"I followed them and I saw a lot of people…" The girl goes on, to Arya's horror, "I saw him. He had horns but it was only his helmet."

"Where was this, child?" Qyburn asks, plunging down beside her.

"In the dockyard, by Blackwater, in the big courtyard place." Says the little girl with a hopeful smile, "Can I have more?"

Qyburn hands her a peach, and she digs into it lustfully. "You did great work, Little Bird, _fantastic_ work. The Queen herself might thank you for this… Though I wouldn't get your hopes up. I believe that will be all for today, my children, I will see you all tonight as scheduled. Lommy, come back tomorrow and I'll give you your first assignment." With that, the Hand of the Queen climbs up the stairs and disappears, locking the door to the Keep behind him.

Arya barely heard a word he said to her, with her heart hammering in her ears. _They know where he is. They know where Gendry is!_ Suddenly the little boy named Lommy takes off running ahead of the rest of the kids, leaving them watching her in confusion. Arya sprints at break-neck speed—her footsteps echoing off the dark, stone corridors and splashing through shit-water. _I have to get to him before she does! I have to warn him the Queen is coming!_


	72. Brienne V

Brienne

The Greyjoy encampment is on the outskirts of the forest near the sea. She smells the salty air from here, as well as all the fires they burn in the night. Brienne was given clean small-clothing to cover herself with. Her legs and arms are bare as well as her stomach, which she doesn't really like but puts up with; at least she receives a traveling cloak to keep herself warm from the cold, winter winds. Her injured right arm is bandaged by Howland's Maester and her hands were treated for any infections. The Maester told her she should consider herself lucky they're letting her go. _"Being here was never lucky."_ Brienne told him as they scrubbed her palms and fingers with a green ointment that stung like fire.

They herd her through the forest with spears, as if she was going to try and run away. When they get close to the edge of the trees, they let her go alone. _At this point, there's no turning back._ If she ran and gets caught by either Greyjoys or Crannogmen there is no telling what tortures they'd put her through. _I just have to suffer this one night, and I'll be free…_

Without anything to arm herself with, Brienne strides closer to the camp. The silver vial they'd given her is hidden underneath the bandages around her arm so that it would not be discovered on accident. The vial's bump is disguised as the knot keeping her bandages tight. Aside from that, she has nothing equipped but tattered small-clothes under her cloak… The two Greyjoy guards notice this at once, and one of them howls at the moon like the dog that he is.

 _"What've we got here, Sevron?!"_

"Tallest whore I've ever seen, I reckon."

" _She looks like a boy!_ Look at 'er muscles!"

"Are you quite finished?" Brienne asks them through a clenched jaw.

 _"Whoa there woman! Mind your tongue!"_

"Apologies, My Lords." Brienne remembers what Howland told her say and hates herself for every word that comes pouring out of her mouth, "Euron Greyjoy sent for me. I am to be his mistress for the evening."

The two guardsmen bust apart with laughter and Brienne scowls at them, wishing she had Oathkeeper.

" _You_?! His next whore?! _Hoo-Hahahaha!"_ The one named Sevron cackles, clutching his ribs.

"Where you from, whore?" Asks the other guard in between breaths.

"White Harbor." Brienne lies, "I've been traveling for quite some time, and I've made quite a name for myself. Perhaps you've heard of me— _Brienne the Beauty_. I'm sure none of you could handle me, which is why _the King_ asks for me." _Howland told me to lie about my name, but these dimwits most likely never heard of Brienne of Tarth, and just once this night I'd like not to lie about something._

They stop laughing and actually appear somewhat impressed. "Is that a challenge?" Sevron asks.

"More like Brienne the Beast, this one." Snorts the other.

"It would be, if I had time for the likes of you. Unfortunately for you I have a King waiting for me." Brienne says stiffly. "Would you be so kind as to lead me to him?"

"What's wrong with your arm? And your hands?" Sevron asks with disgust.

Brienne glowers. "Like I said, you couldn't handle me."

They decide to let her in to see Euron. It's almost too easy, and Brienne can't believe how foolish these men are to trust her. _I guess when a woman says she's a whore every man automatically believes her. But what will happen when they find out he never sent for a whore?_

As they enter the King's tent, Brienne thinks it's empty at first. The war table set up in the center has scattered black and white pieces everywhere, and the bed on the far end of the tent is ripped apart—as though a dog had its way with the blankets and pillows. Blood smears across the linen walls. Brienne looks to the guards, but neither seem surprised by the sight. Sevron calls out to Euron, and she hears a voice behind a grey partition reply. "A whore?"

"Yes, Your Grace. She says you summoned her."

"The one I summoned arrived some time ago." says the voice, sounding amused. "Send her in."

"She's right here." Sevron shoves her forward, "You said he summoned you here, whore?"

"How else was I supposed to get past you dimwits to see the King?" Brienne asks, and the disembodied voice behind the partition barks with laughter.

"You boys can leave, I've got this!"

The guards grumble and leave. Brienne stands alone under the tent, surrounded by dark shadows cast by Euron's furnishings. The bed is especially daunting, and she wonders where all that blood came from. When Euron Greyjoy steps out from behind the partition, his shirt is unbuttoned so his belly hangs out. He snorts with laughter, striding over to his bed to take a seat. "Where the hell have you been hiding?"

"Excuse me?" Brienne frowns.

"Your father must be a giant. _Look at you!_ What amazon did you grow up in?" Euron snickers.

Brienne's heard it all before, but smiles politely anyway, "I'm from White Harbor, Your Grace."

"Ah. You've seen better days. No wonder you're so big. Ever fight in a battle?"

"Never." Brienne looks down at her feet, "I've seen many battles, though, and in the end they're all the same."

"What's your name?"

"They call me Brienne the Beauty."

"Brienne. I like it." Euron grins, the scar on his cheeks twitching. "Do you know who I am?"

"You're the King." She says, straight-faced.

"Aye. I am the King, but not the King of Westeros. No, I'm just a King of some islands no one cares about anymore."

Brienne watches him stroke his beard, her paranoia keeping her on edge. She tries not to let it show, but Brienne can't stop her fists from balling or her bare legs from trembling.

"Come, join me." Euron beckons to her, pulling some of his bloody sheets off the bed to make a spot for her to sit. "I won't bite."

Brienne steps slowly and carefully across the rug, her eyes scanning the tent for any sign of Melisandre's necklace. As she passed the partition, the strong stench of blood causes her to turn her head and witness the body of a naked woman lying against the wall, her legs bent disjointedly up over her shoulders…

"She tried to resist." Euron explains, "When they resist I get excited. When I get excited, well, bad things can happen if _they're_ not careful."

Brienne slowly turns around, her rage boiling beneath her skin. _I can overpower him. I can kill him now when he's most vulnerable._ Except her oath with Howland promised to return him safely—and if Brienne is going to do something as dishonorable as this then she might as well do it the right way… _I just need to give him the drink and take him… But how will I distract the guards? And more pressingly… how will I slip him the potion?_

"Go on then. Take off your clothes." Euron urges her, leaning back on one hand across his bedspread.

Brienne awkwardly begins. Her cloak rustles off first, then her top, exposing her breasts. Euron's eyes travel southward as she continues, bending over. _I can't believe I'm doing this._ She hesitates with her fingers around her bottoms. Euron notices the pause.

"You move like a man, not a woman." He tells her with a sigh, "You came here to please me so you could make a profit, yet I'm not even the least bit hard right now. Have you ever done this before?" As he spoke, he lifts a bloody dagger from a hidden sheath and plays with it, smirking in her direction. "You're going to have to do better if you don't want to end up like the others."

Brienne frowns and pulls off the rest of her clothes. Standing naked before this man, Brienne expects to feel immeasurable shame, yet instead is reminded of the time she once towered before Jaime in the bath, completely naked… and shameless. Brienne smiles and sways her hips as she closes the distance between herself and the King. Euron's eyebrows lift and she can tell he's getting into this. "Get on your knees." He tells her and she does so, slowly traveling across the rug, her face before his lap. "Undo my belt."

With tentative hands, she reaches up and follows his command, pulling the belt apart and yanking his trousers down to reveal his cock twitching with anticipation. It's hardly the first time Brienne's seen one, but it is the first time she's seen one this close to her own face. It's disturbingly big with several warts growing under the pink, bulging head. She tries to hide her disgust at the sight and smell of it, but apparently fails because Euron starts to chuckle. "I know, it's _intimidating_ , isn't it? Excuse the smell, haven't bathed since the last whore… Well, what are you waiting for? Go on."

Her hand wraps around it like she's gripping a sword and pulls on it, up and down. Euron abruptly howls and Brienne receives a sharp smack across the face. " _You don't pull so bloody hard, woman!_ Are you really a whore?"

"My deepest apologies, Your Grace." Brienne says through gritted teeth, "I was nervous."

She begins again, grasping it gently so as not to hurt him. _I should just rip it out right now!_ Brienne thinks to herself, distracting her mind so she didn't focus on what her hand is doing. Euron smiles and grunts with pleasure. "That's more like it. Tell me, what happened to your hands, Brienne?"

"I burned them in a fire." Brienne replies automatically, remembering the story Howland told her to spin. "Our house burned down. That's how my father passed. I tried to save him but I couldn't."

"How tragic." Euron yawns, "You know I find scars on a woman to be rather sexy. How about you show me the one on your arm?"

Brienne stops the motion of her hand and flushes. "I shouldn't, Your Grace. It is still healing and it'll bleed everywhere."

"There's already blood everywhere, look around you." Euron laughs. "I didn't ask you, I commanded you. Let me see your scar." Suddenly the blade of the knife is tracing patterns against her skull, and she realizes this is a threat. Brienne releases his cock and slowly unwraps the bandages around her arm. _He'll see the vial. I won't be able to hide it from him now. What do I do?_

"You know, I've never met a woman like you before. You've got bigger muscles than half my men. Are you sure you've never seen battle?" Euron asks.

She glares up at him. "I told you, I haven't."

"You're a terrible liar, y'know." Euron's eyes narrow. "Why are you really here, _Brienne_?"

Before he can react, Brienne jumps on him—knocking the dagger out of his hands and onto the floor, pinning his wrists with her scarred hands to his bed. Euron shouts with surprise as she climbs over him, straddling his lap so that his cock squirms against her thighs. He's stronger than he looks, and pushes her off of him with a growl—they both roll onto the floor, breaking apart.

There's about two seconds of time where Brienne and Euron glare at each other—five feet apart—each of them rising from the floor. Euron's eyes flicker to the dagger lying on the floor. Brienne spots the vial on the bedsheets, behind Euron. The King dives for the dagger as Brienne leaps for Euron directly. She gets to him just as his finger-tips brush the dagger's handle, pinning him against the bed again. He shouts, throwing his knee up between her groin, smashing her private parts without mercy. Pain blinds her but not enough to distract her from crashing her fist into Euron's jaw, unhinging it with a single swing—his shouting turns to anguished groans, unable to open his mouth more than a few inches. They wrestle on the bed again, and Brienne gets the better of him with ease, trapping Euron in a choke-hold as he furiously beats his fist against her ear… but each hit becomes progressively less powerful the longer she chokes him out.

" _You're right! I am a terrible liar!_ " She hisses in his ear, "I'm not a whore! I've seen more battles than I care to admit! And I've killed more _men_ than you've killed _women_!" Euron gags in response, unable to make a sound. The astonishment in his eyes is satisfying to see. She can tell this has never happened to him before, he never he considered the possibility. His flailing hands reach for the dagger, but Brienne wraps one of her legs up around his arms to keep him from touching it. She _has_ him then, and manages to yank the silver vial from the sheets beside her with her teeth. " _Open wide_!" She mumbles to him, forcing the liquid down into his wheezing mouth by pressing his nostrils together with her fingers so he can't breathe otherwise...

When it's all over and Euron is passed out like he's drunk too much wine, Brienne gets herself dressed, finding _real_ clothing that a man would wear. She then garbs herself in armor and discovers Euron's longsword hanging near the body of the dead woman. She equips it to her side. It would have to do until she could find whoever has Oathkeeper. Part of her hoped it would be Euron who'd have it, but after searching around his tent for several minutes she determined it's not. _So who did Howland give it to?_

She finds the necklace of Melisandre sitting on a mantelpiece by a mirror. _Did he try it on?_ She wonders, lifting it up and examining the red crystal that hangs from its elegant design. _If it makes The Red Woman younger, then what happens if someone else wears it?_ She debates trying it on, feeling a strange desire to do so, but decides this is folly. There's one last part of her mission to clean up, and it is most likely going to be hard sneaking Euron out of his own camp with hundreds of guards on patrol… Brienne finds rope and ties Euron up with his hands behind his back. She lifts him up and drags him, annoyed by his weight, before checking outside.

There is a single guard walking by, but the rest of camp is silent and dark. A couple of men could be heard drinking in the distance while another is fucking a whore somewhere. Euron's shouts during their struggle must have, miraculously, fallen on either deaf ears—or the Ironborn were just used to hearing tortured screams come from the King's tent. _I can do this. I just have to be smart and quick._ So she waits… and when no one is around she walks out into the open, hoisting Euron up over her shoulders, breaking for the forest line past rows and rows of tents. _If any of these men come out right now and saw this I would have to start fighting._ She keeps her hand on the hilt of the longsword, walking faster and faster…

At the gates to the encampment, Brienne spots the two guardsmen from before… both are standing suspiciously still… She approaches cautiously, knowing that by now they've heard her footsteps. That's when she notices the small green darts protruding from both of their necks. _They're awake, only paralyzed_. Their eyes follow her as she walks by, watching her carry their King away, unable to do a thing about it. _I better hurry before it wears off of them…_

It doesn't take very long for them to find her. The Crannogmen appear like ghosts in the mist from behind trees, threatening her with spears. She tosses Euron down into the mud unmercifully, the Red Woman's necklace gleaming around his wooden crown. "I did what you wanted. Am I free to go?"

None of them say a word. They pick Euron up, throw him in a net made of vines, and drag him off. They don't even look back. Brienne watches them leave until she finds herself alone in the middle of a frozen swamp, wondering what the price of her freedom truly cost her.


	73. Euron II

Euron

The bonds that tie him down are tight enough to make his wrists and ankles bleed. Euron Greyjoy stares, bleary-eyed, up at the faces of three white weirwood trees. A deep, threatening growl announces the presence of the gigantic direwolf and Howland Reed clinking on his walking stick beside it. Behind them is The Red Woman. Her necklace is back around her throat, granting her the same illusive beauty that almost fooled him once. She is glaring at Euron with passionate hatred. _Stupid Red Bitch thinks she can scare me?_ He tries to break free but his legs and arms are being pulled back by ropes tied to the trees, his back lying flat along the mossy floor.

"Welcome to Greywater Watch, Your Grace." Howland Reed says pleasantly.

"Where's that big beast, Brienne?" Euron spits at him.

"Don't worry about her. There's more pressing concerns." Howland tells him as he and The Red Woman come to a stop by his feet. "You made it difficult for this to happen, Euron. It didn't _need_ to be difficult. Now we have to do things the _ugly way_... but you know, I've grown _used_ to doing things the _ugly way_. I find that the _ugly way_ of doing business is the most efficient way of doing business, and I think you would agree with me on that." Howland smiles down at him, as though eager for something.

 _"My men will come for me!"_ Euron shouts, _"Our alliance is over!"_

"There was never an alliance, you fool." Howland chuckles, "You really think I'd follow a King like you? You're an imbecile, Greyjoy; a mold on our society, just like every other King and Queen in the world. Your men will come looking, true, but they will never find you. All they know is a whore from White Harbor stole you away in the night. If they somehow suspect us, Greywater Watch is impossible to find without guidance. I would never give you my lands or my loyalty, Greyjoy. However, you have something very important that _you_ can give me." Howland looks to Melisandre then.

The Red Woman kneels down and brushes her fingers along Euron's face. "You could have enjoyed this moment, you know." She tells him softly, "This could have been so different. You would have lived a lot longer. But the Lord of Light's will always catches up with you sooner or later. Are you prepared to meet your Gods, Euron Greyjoy?"

"There is only one true God…" He says slowly, "His name _is_ _Euron Greyjoy_."

Melisandre smiles coldly. "I wonder how your God will fare against mine."

She removes her clothing and Euron glares between her and Howland before laughing uncontrollably. "What is this? You're going to have her fuck me to death? _Great!_ Dream come _fucking_ true. Except don't think I won't forget what you _really_ look like under there."

"I don't expect you to." Melisandre says as she climbs on top of him, slides his half-erect cock inside of her… and removes her necklace. Her hands claw at his abdomen, scratching red trails through his skin as her fingers wrinkle into talons. Euron screams in horror as her red hair dissolves into white strands, her skin sags and wrinkles, and her tits brush her engorged belly. Her insides turn from moist warmth to dry, cold, dampness.

" _No! No! No!_ _Get the fuck off of me_ _!_ " Euron bawls, bucking with his hips but it's no use. A cackle escapes the old hag. She rocks against him back and forth while Euron's screams persist. "Stop! _No!_ Get off me! _Somebody help me!_ "

Howland hobbles around them; a sick, triumphant smirk on his face. "You can scream all you like, nobody will save you. Better get used to it. We'll be here all night."

" _GET OFF! SOMEBODY HELP ME! HELP! HELP!"_ Euron bellows, losing his mind. The old witch's laugh resonates alongside his screams all through the night…


	74. Arya IX

Arya

Snow falls in a light drizzle upon King's Landing. The sun is setting over the horizon of Blackwater Bay, casting an orange glow across the sky. In the dockyard, thousands of people are gathering. It is the largest gathering of commoners Arya has seen since her father's trial. In the center of it all, Gendry the Iron Bull is providing a galvanizing speech. Arya hears him from down the street. Everyone is hailing him, making it impossible to make out his words. She pushes and shoves her way through them, still wearing the face of Lommy the little boy. Nobody pays her attention, but the closer she gets to him the more packed the crowd becomes, and she finds it impossible to squeeze through anyone. _Shit! I'm trapped!_ She realizes. It stinks of sweat and rot down here and she can't breathe. " _Gendry_!" She tries to yell but her voice is drowned in the cheers…

Then those cheers turn into screams.

People twist their heads and point up the street, the way Arya came from. She looks as well, already knowing what she'll see.

Cersei Lannister, Queen of The Seven Kingdoms, First of her Name and Protector of the Realm, is descending the streets, surrounded by five golden Queensguard. The Hand of the Queen is beside her, speaking in her ear. Behind them, a massive force of both Lannister soldiers and Gold Cloaks storm the streets. Already they begin to section off the dockyard, preventing anyone from leaving. Those who tried are shoved to the ground and kicked by a soldier. Others are punched and slapped out of the way. Nobody can resist or escape them. The soldiers wear armor and have swords. Not a single man or woman in Gendry's crowd can say the same.

Arya stares at the woman she wants to kill more than any other in Westeros, watches as Cersei delegates her troops through Qyburn, how her ruthless expression gazes at everyone in the crowd with disgust… Arya fondles Needle's handle, hidden under her robes. _She's here. She's out in the open. I can see here clear as day. She has five guards. One of them is The Mountain…_ Right away she could point him out. He towers over the rest at Cersei's side, never moving or making a sound… Another one of the Queensguard, a shorter, younger man than the rest, is walking bow-leggedly, like he has a broomstick shoved up his ass. Arya removes her Lommy face, knowing nobody is paying her any attention at the moment, and pulls on the face of the Old Man Yoren instead. _I can't let Qyburn recognize me._

 _"Silence!"_ The Queen shouts, and by her command the crowd of thousands falls silent.

"It is the Crown's understanding that _this_ is the Rebellion we've heard so much about." Qyburn says, stepping forward and smiling at everyone. "I think we'll all be a lot more comfortable if you all bend the knee before we begin."

One by one, everyone stoops to their knees, afraid of the crimson-clad soldiers that encompass them. Arya mirrors them, blending in. _Yoren will do it, but Arya Stark will never bend the knee to you, Cersei._ She turns her head to try and find Gendry. She succeeds in spotting him out, still in the center of the crowd, only he no longer wearing the bull helm… He too is on his knees like the rest. Once everyone is down, Qyburn claps his hands together and stands aside for Cersei to speak.

" _Your little rebellion ends here!_ _All of your lives will be spared if the Iron Bull reveals himself now! Then all of these fine people can go back to their homes and dream about the time they were all foolish enough to rebel against their Queen!_ "

 _Don't you do it, Gendry! Don't you dare stand!_ Arya glares back at him and watches Gendry close his eyes… then stand up. He calmly says, "I'm the Iron Bull."

The crowd gasps. Some plead for him to stop but Gendry, who stands amidst a crowd of supporters, looks more determined than ever as he stares up at the Queen. "I'm also the last living heir to your murdered husband, King Robert Baratheon!" At this, the crowd goes wild with surprise. _You idiot! Stop! "_ Jon Snow proved that even a Bastard can be King! When I strike you down I will be the rightful ruler and you will be _nothing!_ "

Cersei arrogantly smiles and says, "Aren't you _the brave one_. I thought all of Robert's bastards were taken care of by now. I suppose one slipped through the cracks and turned himself into a martyr for the people. How amusing—"

To everyone's surprise, the Queen is interrupted when a peasant at the head of the crowd slowly rises to his feet. He's an older, feeble man with a grizzled expression and peppery beard. He appears skinny and weak, his ribs showing under his ratty tunic, yet he glares boldly up at the Queen with tears in his eyes and says, "I am the true Iron Bull, _ignore that boy pretender!_ "

"What is this?" Cersei laughs. "You think I'd believe—?"

Another man stands, this one chubby and baby-faced. He gulps and stutters as he says, "N-No! I-I'm the Iron Bull!"

 _"Stop it! Both of you!"_ Gendry shouts at them, but before the words escape his lips three more random people deliberately stand and announce that _they're_ the Iron Bull. Arya gawks as more and more people do the same—The woman next to her stands up and says she's the Iron Bull. A small boy the age of seven or eight yells that he's the Iron Bull. A blind man says he's the Iron Bull. A young woman with a burn on her cheek says she's the Iron Bull… Even an old man named Yoren eventually stands and says _he's_ the Iron Bull. Before long, the entire crowd of thousands is on their feet, everyone shouting in harmony, " _WE ARE THE IRON BULL_ _!_ "

Cersei's face is stone as she softly says, "Kill them all."

At first, nobody moves except The Mountain, whose armor clinks loudly, drawing his greatsword. The other Kingsguard seem unsure if they should follow. Everyone in the crowd is muttering in confusion; even Qyburn gives Cersei a questioning, raised brow. "Your Grace?"

"Kill them all." Cersei repeats, "All of them. Ser Gregor, don't stop until they're all dead." If Ser Gregor understands her command, he makes no acknowledgement of it as he plods his way toward the crowd. Her Queensguard follow, drawing their blades. When they do this, the rest of the Lannister soldiers release their weapons as well, and close in on everyone.

" _No!"_ Gendry roars, but his cry goes unheard as The Mountain cuts down the old man who was first to rise and admit his "identity". He is sliced cleanly in half from head to naval, both ends flopping to the ground in puddles of guts and blood. At this point, everyone in the crowd screams and Arya gets roughly shoved from stranger to stranger without any control of where her feet take her. _Shit! I have to get to Gendry!_ _"Move!"_ she shouts, drawing Needle. She glimpses Gendry fifty feet away amidst the panicking crowd of people, donning his horned helm and drawing his longsword. He charges into the crowd as The Mountain tears through every man and woman in his way to get to him. The rest of the soldiers are blocking off the rebellion's retreat, stabbing at anyone who tries to put up a fight. Some beggars successfully team up and bash in a soldier's head with a rock—but they are all swiftly cut down by the wall of red soldiers closing in. The dockyard is alive with the sound of people being slaughtered all around her and the closer she gets to Gendry, the tougher it gets to maneuver through the bumbling crowd.

The Mountain drives his greatsword through three people at once and swings them off his blade like they're dolls, just as Gendry appears within his sights. Arya watches from too far away as they square off, both their swords at the ready. _"You can't win!"_ She screams desperately, _"Run away!"_ But the crowd's screams deafen her own. Gendry rushes in and The Mountain brings his greatsword down. Arya shrieks, unable to look away, expecting to see her friend get split in half—instead Gendry is pushed by a random peasant who receives the deadly blow. Gendry roars with rage, getting back on his feet and swiftly dodging a second swing to his head. Ducking low, the Iron Bull runs his sword along The Mountain's ankles and successfully slashes at skin. The Mountain goes down to one knee, and Arya is amazed. _Can he actually win?_

Gendry brings his sword back around and swipes it at his neck—The Mountain's hand reaches out and grabs the blade, allowing it to sink into his palm a few inches. Gendry tries to yank it out, but the sword remains embedded in his skin, and The Mountain gradually pulls Gendry into his embrace.

 _"NO!"_ Arya wails, tripping and falling to her hands and knees. She can only watch from mere feet away as Gendry is pinned between The Mountain's chest and arms. His Bull's helm comes tumbling off into the dirt; he is bleeding from his mouth and gasping for air. _"LET HIM GO!"_ Arya scrambles up to her feet but all of the sudden there's hands around her shoulders, pulling her backward. She kicks at whoever it is but misses. _"STOP! LET HIM GO!"_

The Mountain squeezes harder and harder until Arya hears the bones in Gendry's back crack three times. He can't even scream as all the air is pushed from his lungs and his eyes bleed tears. He sees Arya in the crowd… only it isn't Arya, just an old man…

Finally, The Mountain releases him and his body slumps to the ground, limp and lifeless… The Mountain turns his red gaze on the crowd watching and without hesitation or warning—swipes his greatsword through the air, disemboweling five peasants all at once, their guts spilling down their legs before they die. Arya falls down, pretending to be one of them. Whoever is pulling on her has also fallen, but Arya doesn't care about _them_. She has eyes only for Gendry, who isn't moving…

For a while she's _No One_ again. Arya Stark felt emotions, but No One felt nothing. When she's No One, she can be a dead body and listen to The Mountain and the Lannisters murder everyone around her without feeling a thing... The longer she watches Gendry's lifeless face however, the harder it gets to stop the tears from flowing…

"I think we've got enough now." says one of the Queensguard nervously as he approaches The Mountain, who is pulling his greatsword out of a child on the ground. "Well done, err, is it The Mountain or Ser Gregor Clegane? I can never remember between the two—" The Queensguard never finishes his question, as The Mountain turns and strikes the pommel of his sword into his eye, bursting his brain and sending him spiraling backward into the other three Queensguard.

" _What the fuck, Clegane!?"_ They yell as The Mountain lifts his gigantic sword into the sky and cuts another of them down before they have the chance to run. The remaining two, a bulky, bearded man, and the one with a stick up his ass, both react differently; The latter flees, screaming for their father, running comically… while the former tries to take on The Mountain with a brave war cry, swinging his broadsword at the giant's neck. It doesn't even reach, as the Mountain thrusts his leg out and kicks the Queensguard so hard in the belly that he shits blood, keels over, and gets his head crushed under The Mountain's boot. No One notices The Mountain's eyes are red and bleeding out of his helm as if he's crying… The giant turns her way and her eyes snap shut. She listens to him stride heavily toward the Lannister soldiers still slaughtering the peasants. When she opens her eyes again, she watches with amazement and confusion as The Mountain cuts down his own men just like the rest, swinging with relentless, indiscriminate fury at whoever is unlucky enough to cross his path. Suddenly Lannister soldiers, Gold cloaks, and peasants alike are fleeing from the docking yard. Some dive into the ocean to escape, others climb to rooftops, but those unable to find a way out in time meet the giant's blood-smeared blade.

No One watches as the Hand of the Queen rushes as fast as he can over to The Mountain. No One watches as he begins to talk to the giant in a soothing tone of voice. _It's impossible to hear what he's saying over the screams and slaughter…_

No One closes her eyes… and listens.

When she opens them again, The Mountain is standing still as a statue, his sword hanging limply at his side. Qyburn is patting his elbow gently, like a mother comforting her child. He guides The Mountain away. No One watches them until they are gone... The Queen and all her soldiers eventually leave as well. The remaining survivors of the massacre are few and far between… Crying children, women, and even several men, are all that's left.

No One stands and sees that the one who was trying to pull her away from The Mountain is the homeless girl, Hilda… _She recognized my face and wanted to save me…_ No One pulls off the face of the old man, Yoren, and lets it drop to the ground… Next, Arya goes to Gendry's body and kneels down beside it, her expression stoic. She touches his chest and confirms there's no heart beating inside…

"You idiot."

Arya wishes she could retreat away in the shadows somewhere and cry for a while… _It would feel so good to cry right now…_ But Arya can't cry… it isn't grief that pushes her to stand, it isn't depression that reminds her to pick up Needle…

 _Cersei…_ Arya turns amidst the bodies and looks up at the Red Keep slowly turning white with snow. _I'm coming._


	75. Bran VII

Bran

Winter has iced over the swampy marshlands that belong to the Crannogmen, freezing the watery trail underneath their horse's hooves. Several times, the horse Bran and Meera shared would falter and slip, nearly sending Bran sprawling off; luckily, Meera is there to catch him whenever this happens. Up ahead The Hound and Tormund Giantsbane lead the way; Tormund is describing Brienne of Tarth to The Hound like a poet describes a work of art while The Hound scowls, keeping his eyes on what little of the road could be seen beneath all the snow. "Those broad shoulders and _thick_ calves of hers! Let me tell you, Sandor! I can always spot a maiden—and that woman— _that goddess_ , she's a maiden just waiting for the right man to come along and—"

"You do realize she and I tried to kill each other, right?" The Hound grumbles.

Tormund barks, "Aye, and you lost, didn't ya!? That's my girl. Ha-ha! I swear to all the bloody Gods that if these frog-fuckers touched her or hurt her, I'll—"

"Shut up! The both of you!" Meera snaps at them. All around them, the white woods are whispering. Bran can hear them, but not their words. _They're here_ , he realizes, and is horrified when both The Hound and Tormund draw their blades. Before they can do anything, Meera shouts, "My name is Meera Reed! I am the daughter of Howland Reed! I've come home, and I bring with me Lord Brandon of House Stark!"

Then they appear like ghosts taking form out of the fog, between the trees. Bran has only ever heard stories of the Crannogmen. Some were wild tales of men and women who ate frogs and slept with lizard-lions. His father had always spoke fondly of Howland Reed, but warned Bran that the Crannogmen were not to be trifled with. They're green-skinned and covered in mud, wearing white pelts of fur to keep them warm in the snow, and to also help blend them in, for after a few seconds Bran realized they are completely surrounded by fifty of them carrying three-pronged spears.

"Are they going to attack us?" Tormund asks with a paranoid glare at Meera.

"No. They wouldn't reveal themselves if they were." Meera replies with a smirk. "You're all my father's men. Take us to Greywater Watch!"

It doesn't take long to get there. As they trot their horses through the swampy mists, they come across a giant fortress, surrounded by thick trees and huts. The growl of a lizard-lion reaches his ears but when he looks around none can be seen, for the fog is blinding. The roaring and cackling of a fire is the next thing he hears, and the fog clears away as they approach the keep…

A grand pyre is erected in the middle of a clearing, surrounded by thousands of silent, forlorn watchers. Standing on board the wood is a man bound, gagged, and naked. A woman in red is chanting something unintelligible at first, holding a flaming torch in her hands. Beside him is a shriveled old man with a walking stick who has his back turned to Bran as they come upon this strange and bewildering sight. _"The night is dark and full of terrors!"_ The Red Woman cries and the crowd of Crannogmen repeat it under their breath. "Before you all stands a sinner! His sins lay bare for all to witness! The Lord of Light's will shall shine down upon you today, Euron Greyjoy; let your soul open up to the darkness that awaits you!"

The naked man tries to yell through his wooden gag at her, but all that comes out is a muffled gurgle, spraying saliva.

"What is going on?!" Meera shouts, catching the attention of the immediate crowd, however her voice is nearly drowned in the chanting of, _"THE NIGHT IS DARK AND FULL OF TERRORS!"_ Howland Reed doesn't hear his daughter at first. The Red Woman raises the torch, about to light the pyre. _"FATHER!"_ Meera roars over the chanting.

Howland turns his head and his eyes land upon his daughter. "Meera?" He squints, then his disfigured jaw drops. He abandons the Red Woman's side, who stops what she's about to do to watch as the leader of the Crannogmen moves faster than any old man Bran has ever seen through the sea of people, shoving them out of his way, abandoning his walking stick.

 _"Father!"_ Meera grins, tears spilling down her eyes. She slides off the horse, helping Bran down into the wooden casket. By the time this is done, Howland swoops in and embraces Meera, tears spilling out of his eyes as well. Meera informed Bran of her father's greyscale, but he had no idea just how bad it looked in person. It's like he isn't even human, but some deformed looking creature that once resembled a man…

 _"I thought you were dead!"_ He moans, dropping down to his knees with her and sobbing loudly. Several of his men have tears in their eyes as well, watching the scene unfold. " _Oh, thank you, Lord of Light! This is a sign, we must be doing something right!_ You're alive! _You're alive_! But where is your brother? Where is my Jojen?"

"Jojen… He didn't make it… I'm so sorry, father…"

Howland goes from completely relieved to downright heartbroken as his cracked lips quiver. "No… He always said it wasn't his day to die…"

Meera kisses his cheek, smiling. "He died for a good cause. Father, I have Brandon Stark with me."

"So I see." Howland looks down at Bran, who can only smile back at him from his casket. Bran cannot tell if it's disdain from the loss of his son, or the presence of Bran himself that causes Howland to frown at him. "I thought you dead as well, boy."

"Most do." Bran sighs. "If you don't mind my asking, Lord Reed, what is it that's going on here?"

Howland glances back at The Red Woman, who waits uncertainly with the torch. "We have captured the leader of the Greyjoy army invading our lands. Euron Greyjoy is to be executed by fire for his crimes. It's nothing to concern yourselves with. Perhaps we should go and speak inside my home?"

"First thing's first. Where's Brienne?" Tormund growls, still holding his sword.

"Brienne?" Howland raises an eyebrow at him, though Bran thinks Howland says the name all-too casually not to know the name. "You mean the Swornsword to Sansa Stark? We released her some time ago. As soon as she told me her story, I had no reason to keep her."

Meera smirks at Bran, Tormund, and The Hound. "I told you."

"How did you know she was here?" Howland asks, sounding curious.

"Her Squire found me." speaks The Hound, glaring at Howland. He had his sword put away and his arms crossed, but his tone suggests distrust for the Crannogmen Leader. "Told me your men captured her for no reason and took her away. Why didn't we pass her on the way here?"

"The north is a big place." Howland shrugs, not meeting the Hound's eyes. "I cannot explain why. All I can assure you is that she's not here."

"I'll believe it when I see it." Tormund says, "I'm going to take a look around. Any of you try and stop me—"

"By all means, good man. Please, I insist. I don't want there to be any trouble." Howland smiles, and he orders several of his men to guide Tormund Giantsbane to their pits.

The man on the pyre suddenly wrenches his mouth free of the wooden bar in his mouth and shouts directly at Bran, _"PLEASE! YOU HAVE TO HELP ME! I'M INNOCENT, I TELL YOU! THESE PEOPLE ARE ALL FUCKING MAD! YOU HAVE TO BELIEVE ME! YOU HAVE TO SAVE ME! PLEASE! HELP—"_ The Red Woman ignites the pyre and Euron's pleas turn into piercing shrieks of terror and pain. The flames catch quickly, spreading up his legs and torso, melting his flesh away. Euron doesn't die immediately. He screams on and on even as his eyes burst and his bones shine through, until he becomes nothing but a charred corpse…

" _The night is dark and full of terrors_!" The Red Woman shouts and the crowd of on-lookers repeats it. Bran feels sick to his stomach. Meera can hardly believe her eyes. Howland however, hardly seems concerned at all, and is smiling down at his daughter. _I recognize that woman from somewhere…_ Bran tries to remember… then it hits him. _She's the woman that was being tortured in my last vision! It's her! It has to be her!_

"I've seen her." He says out loud to both Meera and Howland. "In the last vision I had, back at Winterfell. She was in it just for a second, but I remember it… She was being whipped by some dark-skinned man with a long beard…"

"What do you mean… _vision_?" Howland asks.

Bran knows this is it. This was the reason he came here to meet Howland Reed. "I'm the new Three-Eyed Raven."

Howland Reed studies Bran at first, his words washing over him. Then the old, crack-faced man grins. "After Ned died, my son, Jojen, came to me and said that you were important. He told me he needed to find you, to help you find the Three-Eyed Raven beyond The Wall. He insisted The White Walkers are real. In honor of Jojen's memory, I believe him. I want to believe he could truly see the future. So, tell me, Brandon Stark. _Can_ _you_?"

"I don't know." Bran admits. "I can see the past, but the future… it all comes it flashes, and I can never tell if what I'm seeing is really the future or if it's actually the past. I honestly don't really know how to control this power…"

"The Three-Eyed Raven was once revered as a God among the Children of the Forest, according to ancient legends." Howland says, his knees cracking as he leads them inside his tower. "Today, society calls him 'The Old Gods' and we worship the weirwood trees that the Children carved so that the Three-Eyed Raven would be able to bear witness to all happenings. The trees are the key to your power, Bran, at least as far as the stories go. You should come with me."

"I want to know more about Rhaegar Targaryen." Bran says as Meera goes to lift up his casket. "I know you were there that day at the Tower of Joy with my father…" Howland's expression stiffens and grows ugly, glaring at Bran all of the sudden. Bran keeps going anyway, "I know who Jon's real parents are, and so does he. What I don't understand is why Rhaegar stole Lyanna away from Robert when he was already married, starting a war… I need to understand because… because somehow this is important—somehow this is what Jojen, your son, wanted me to find. Is there anything you can tell me, Lord Reed?"

There's clearly an internal debate taking place in Howland's mind that Bran just doesn't understand. "There is a lot I can tell you, Lord Stark… but I think it would be better to _show_ you."


	76. Jon V

Jon

Jon Snow hates it down here.

When he was little, nightmares plagued him of this place; the long, black tunnels lined with flickering torches always felt like a decline instead of a flat expanse. The deeper he travels through the crypts, the farther he descends from the surface. _You have to go down there, Jon. Down farther than you've ever been. There's something waiting for you in the crypts. You have to find it._ Bran's last words to him before he departed echoed in his mind, pushing him to keep going. _But what will I find? What can possibly be so important down here that I have to find it?_ Jon wonders, though he trusts Bran's word…

Farther and farther he walks, until he reaches a familiar chamber that is a dead-end. It's tradition for the Starks to create the tombs for their family at birth, so that it would be ready for them in death. Here, Jon finds the empty tombs of Robb, Sansa, Bran, and Arya. Rickon's is there, and it's the only one with fresh dirt around its base. The last time Jon came down to this chamber was to pay his respects to Rickon's buried body. Then there is Eddard and Catelyn Stark's tombs at the head of the room; statues carved in their likeness gaze solemnly down at him, side-by-side. Even as a statue, Jon can feel Catelyn's hatred of him in her eyes. She was the one to insist Jon not be given a tomb alongside the rest of their family…

 _There's no more tunnels. This is it. This is as deep as I can go. So what waits for me here, Bran?_ Jon examines each grave and finds no clue. Not even his father, who always offered wisdom and council, can help him now… His statue is eerily similar to the real Eddard Stark. The expression is grim… Reflecting Jon's feelings back at him. "Why did you have to die?" Jon asks with a heavy sigh.

He notices a small clearing as though another grave was supposed to be there. _Is that where mine was supposed to go… If I was a Stark?_ There are spaces between all the graves, but this one stands out to him. It's in-between the entryway to the chamber and Robb's tomb. He brushes the dirt a little with his foot, and feels something hard underneath. Digging further with his hands, Jon uncovers a small, black slab in the earth… It glistens under his torchlight. Aside from that, there's no hint of anything; no words or markings to teach him some hidden secret. Nothing. Just a simple, black slab of obsidian … _I don't remember this being here. Then again, I haven't been here since I was a boy._

Eddard took Robb and Jon down into the crypts when they were both lads. Jon learned about their family line, even though he was a bastard, as they trekked to where he stands now… He remembers being jealous of Robb for having a grave stone ready for him with the rest of the family. _Now Robb is dead and here I stand…_ Jon Snow removes a glove and strokes the smooth, glassy surface. _This is Obsidian, the same stuff that makes up dragonglass. Sam would love to see this, but why is it here? It looks like it's not natural._ Embedded in the middle is a small slit, nearly invisible to his eye, but not for his thumb. _Only something razor-thin could fit in here… A sword maybe?_ Jon compares the size of Longclaw to the slit's, and is disappointed to find that his blade's too wide and thick to slide in. _Damn... What is this for, father?_

Beneath Eddard's statue resides a massive chest. It's the only chest in the room… _The Boltons never bothered to bury him…_ Jon kneels before it, wondering if perhaps the answer he seeks hides in here… But as Jon's fingers grip the wood handle, he closes his eyes and hesitates. _Can I really do this?_

The chest groans loudly as he opens it.

Eddard Stark's skull faces him amidst a neatly assorted pile of yellow and brown bones. The skull is stained, but it still retains a white hue. Jon stares in horror into its empty eye-sockets, at a small crack across the nose where he'd once broken it, and at his teeth all still perfectly in place, grinning at him. Jon slams the lid shut, feeling sick. _It's only his bones._ _You know nothing, Jon Snow._ _This was a mistake._

Jon Snow departs, walking faster than he did to get down here. The closer he got to the surface the chillier the wind outside crept up on him. It's so warm down here that he's sweating—his hair clinging to his forehead and neck. The snowy, winter air is a refreshing release as he climbs outside again, still trying to erase the image of his father's skull from his mind's eye. _I have to clear my head if I'm going to address every Northern House tomorrow. I can't be worrying about Bran's riddles and whatever's in the crypts._ As he starts back towards the castle, Maester Wolkan appears amidst the blizzard running at him in a hurry.

 _"Your Grace, a raven came from the citadel for you_!" cries the chubby Maester desperately over the storm, coming upon him with a letter in his hand. "It's from a man who calls himself _Samwell Tarly_! Do you know this person, Your Grace?"


	77. Sam V

Sam

 _The Shade of the Evening_ swirls around in the enormous tankard as Marwyn the Mage prepares to swallow it down, explaining he prefers the taste after its been shaken around a little. Sam sits in Marwyn's study deep beneath the Maester's tower, pouring over Marwyn's books he's collected from across the sea. One book stands out above all the rest—a decrepit, moldy tome from Asshai, or so Marwyn claims. Eagerly flipping through its aged pages, Sam finds descriptions of ancient dragons written in Valyrian, so all he can do is stare at the sketches in awe. "What does _Dracarys_ mean?" Sam asks Marwyn, "It's written all over this book…"

"I wouldn't say that word so blithely in my presence, if I were you, Sam." Marwyn warns, casting him a bewildered look, "It's High Valyrian for _Dragonfire._ Targaryens used the word to encourage their dragons to reign fire, but what you won't find written in any history book is that the word, _Dracarys_ , is in fact _a spell_. It _triggers_ Dragons, they don't have a _choice_ , if their master speaks the words, they _must_ breathe fire…"

"Isn't that the word you used to light the dragonglass candle upstairs?" Sam asks, remembering that night…

"Very _astute_. Yes, it is." Marwyn the Mage grins toothily, "But it's only because I was using _Wildfire_. Wildfire is brewed of Dragon's _blood_ , Sam; the spell activates the substance, which is why you need to be careful in here." Marwyn gestures to the dark corner of his chamber where his cabinets are arranged. Stewing in five individual clay pots, are vats of bright, green _wildfire_. When Sam first saw it, Marwyn assured him it's _safe_ and _legal_ , yet when Sam asks if the other Maesters, or if even Archie, knew about it—Marwyn quickly changed the subject and furtively went to work on his next batch of _Shade of the Evening_.

"I don't understand… if magic is real, why haven't the other maesters come out and admitted it?"

Marwyn cackles, "Have you seen this place? Have you met these people? I'm the only one here who wants to admit the truth, Sam. They're all hiding it—they know I'm right, they've seen the evidence for themselves, but they refuse to listen. It's their bloody plan, Sam. Archie and all of those old farts _despise_ the idea of magic returning to the world."

Sam remembers Archie's test, how he made him sit all day and night up in the tower trying to light that damn candle. _He wanted me to admit that magic isn't real. I had to do it in order to earn my robes and study here… But I was wrong. Archie and all of them are wrong. Dragons are back, and Marwyn lit that candle using magic—I don't understand how this magic works, but right now I need Marwyn's help more than I need Archie's if I'm going to help Jon defeat the White Walkers._

Sam flips to the back of the book and opens a weathered page to find the largest picture in the entire tome. Depicted on the parchment is the greatest dragon Sam has seen so far. Black, leathery scales cover its entire body. Its wings are folded up across its back, where rows of black spines travel up his neck and down his sweeping tail, curled behind its legs. The Dragon is sleeping, its gargantuan head nestled in mountains of gold and rubies. Wherever this is, the dragon appears to be underground, in a cavern—for the entire page is inked in black. Only one word is written underneath the picture, etched in blood, and encircled in the sketch of a fiery heart…

 _R'hllor_

"What's _R'hllor_?" Sam asks, frowning as a chill goes down his spine. _Another spell?_

When Marwyn turns around, his lips are blue and his eyes are wide with wonder. "What did you say?"

Sam shows him the picture in the book, a little nervous now that Marwyn was on _Shade of the Evening_. The old, frazzled Maester smiles down at the picture, then frowns. "They call him the Lord of Light in Essos, revered as their God of Fire. Curious… why do you suppose it's written here, Sam?"

"Well… maybe, R'hllor is really a Dragon that died a long time ago?"

"Perhaps." Marwyn just scratches his chin, his eyes wandering around his chamber. "Yet his sorceresses and priests still exist to this day, and it's said their magic is just as real as my own. I've yet to meet any in Westeros, though."

"How long have the Red Priests in Essos been around?"

" _Centuries_ , Sam. Some say they came about after the Doom, others say they're the ones who caused the Doom. It's all speculation at this point, but they've been around longer than most. It's an ancient religion, one that breeds sacrifices and misfortune. I don't trust them."

"Yet you trust the Warlocks of Qarth not to poison you with that stuff." Sam says, eyeing the tankard of _Evening_ resting in Marwyn's hands.

Marwyn smirks, "They wouldn't harm me, not when I can show them how to see far and beyond our own realm. Are you _positive_ you don't want to try it again, Sam? I'll give you a bigger swallow so you can dive even deeper and see whatever your heart desires."

 _I could see what Gilly's up to, find out where she's working, and see Little Sam…_ Sam sighs, "I can't. My stomach won't manage it again. I need to focus—my _Chaining Ceremony_ is in a few nights, and I still have no idea how to convince all of those maesters I've learned anything they won't just scowl at. All I've discovered, and I can't prove to them…"

"I might be able to help you with that." Marwyn grins, swaggering over to his table and boisterously sitting down opposite of him. Sam leans away, a little afraid of the manic look in his eye. "Don't give me that, Sam. I'm not as _mad_ as I look."


	78. Sansa VII

Sansa

 _"My Lady, I—"_

" _Thank you,_ you may go now." Sansa says to her handmaiden harshly. She has her back to her so Sansa can't see the girl's reaction to being fired. All she hears is the sniff of tears before her door slams shut, and Sansa is left alone again.

 _Never again._ She takes her brush and begins to comb her long, red hair herself. It's brushed so often she hardly needed to spend much time on it. _I don't need a handmaiden for this. I can do my own duties myself._ She stares at her own reflection with an empty expression, her head dully pounding. _If Jon wants to spy on me, I'm not going to make it easy for him. Even if she is innocent, I can't take the risk._

Underneath her tower, many of the northern Lords are arriving at the gates. She recognizes the flapping flags of Houses Manderly, Mormont, Glover, and Cerwyn, as well as a host of smaller houses—so many she can't count them all—but it appears the entire North has answered Jon's call. No sign of the Reeds, however… _Bran left a week ago, so Howland is either on his way here or isn't coming. Either way…_

A knock at her door draws her attention away from her window, and Sansa knows right away who's there. "You may enter."

Petyr Baelish strides inside, his hands folded behind his back. " _Your Grace_ ," He bows, "The other Lords have finally arrived. Jon Snow is already down in the Grey Hall awaiting us…The time to act is now."

 _He calls me, Your Grace, yet I am not his Queen… yet._ "Are you prepared?" Sansa asks him, needing to be sure.

Littlefinger smirks. "Of course, _I'm_ prepared, it's _you_ I'm concerned about."

"Don't be." Sansa scowls, "This is what I want." She hears herself say the words, yet her heart contradicts her. _At least Bran won't be here to witness this…_

"You realize they will call this treason?"

"Not if we do this the way we planned."

"That will depend entirely on how Jon Snow reacts. This can go down a number of ways… fortunately, your _cousin_ is a just, honorable man." Littlefinger reaches out and grasps her hand. "Have no fear, My Lady. I will do most of the talking. Do you remember what you _need_ to say?"

Sansa nods her head solemnly. _He'll hate me after this. I can still turn back. I can still end this…_

"What about Howland Reed? Don't we need his testimony?" Sansa asks him, sounding less confident the longer she talks.

Littlefinger only shakes his head, sighing. "We don't need him. _Have no fear_ , Your Grace. Everything will work out in the end."


	79. Jon VI

Jon

The Grey Hall was empty when Jon first takes his place at the head of the table. Outside, the morning light barely peeks through the windows. Snow had stopped falling today. Jon Snow rests his hands upon the wooden surface, his eyes closed, breathing heavily. _This is it_. The giant doors open with a groan.

Sansa enters, dressed in a black gown, her hair tied elegantly behind her head in an ornate bun. Shadows under her eyes tell him she hasn't been sleeping… As she walks slowly across the hall, they nod to each other, but don't say a word of greeting, then she takes her seat at his side. When she does, the doors open again. Lord Baelish enters this time, his black cloak swirling around his legs. Beside him is Lord Robin Arryn of the Vale. The young Lord bumbles in like he owns the place, scowling up at the gloomy, dark walls and ceiling with dislike. Behind them are fifty Knights of the Vale and Lord Yohn Royce of Runestone. Littlefinger takes his place on Jon's other side, as opposed to his usual place next to Sansa. "Greetings, Your Grace." Baelish says as he sits, "You're here early."

"Couldn't sleep." Jon admits, glancing at his sister. Sansa's eyes are firmly planted on the table in front of her, her expression a pale mask. _What's wrong?_ He wants to ask, though not with Littlefinger so close… Instead he turns to the young boy who takes his seat beside his step-father. "Is this the brave Lord Robin Arryn everyone has told me about?"

The young boy doesn't fall for his flattery, and Jon can tell right away there would be no winning him over. Lord Robin Arryn scowls at him. "I don't care who you are. There's a hundred Kings out there, you're no special from any of the others. I wouldn't even be here if my _father—_ "

" _Forgive_ Lord Arryn, _Your Grace_!" Littlefinger interrupts with a hearty chuckle, mussing with Robin's hair the way Jon used to muss up Arya's. "He begged me not to come. However, once I explained the importance of this meeting—"

 _"You said I could see the giant's body!"_ Robin shouts at Littlefinger, _"When can I see it?!"_

"Soon, My Lord. Soon." Littlefinger chuckles again. "May I ask ahead of time what this _war summit_ might consist of? Forgive me, Your Grace, but last we discussed you were against going to war."

Jon sighs, "You'll be disappointed that I still am."

"Then how exactly is this a _war_ summit?"

"You'll find out." Jon says dismissively, feeling no desire to speak any further with the man. Wun-Wun's body was burned after the battle. Once winter was over, Jon would have men build a statue of the giant in the courtyard, in honor of his memory… _Littlefinger, do the lies ever end?_

The doors open again and this time it's Lord Manderly and thirty of his soldiers bearing the white merman over a blue-green field. His thick, white hair bounces as he announces his presence and greets Jon with joy. Jon smiles as Lord Manderly takes his place at the table while the rest of his men sit down beneath them in one of the long tables across from the Knights of the Vale. Next enters Lord Glover and fifteen of his men, bearing the sigil of an armored silver fist on a red field. Then Lord Cerwyn and twenty of his men with their black battle-axe on a silver field. Soon after, every small Northern House comes pouring through the doors, accompanied by five men; There's Lord Flint, whose house is still rebuilding itself after the horrors The Boltons suffered them through. Lord Ryswell and Lady Dustin are there with several of their men, as well as Lords Borrell, Hornwood, Forrester, Tallhart, Mazin, Poole, Mollen, Corbray, Lynderly, Sunderland, Waynwood, Hunter, Redfort, Grafton, Wibberley, and even Lady Glenmore, who arrives pregnant with child.

Only four of Tormund's Free Folk are permitted for the War Summit, for there are far too few of them left anymore. Before long the Grey Hall is booming with conversation and laughter. Lady Mormont is the last to enter, leading only three men, all of whom are battle-scarred and limping from injuries. Lady Mormont takes her place at the table in-between Lords Cerwyn and Glover, and asks, "Where is Lord Brandon Stark?"

"He is away on a sensitive diplomatic mission." Jon answers. Lady Mormont seems impressed instead of saddened. _When did my little brother become so popular?_ He wonders with a smile. _If Bran wasn't already fond of Meera, I'd see if I could arrange a marriage between him and Lady Mormont._

"And who might you be?" Lady Mormont asks Lord Arryn and the young boy gawks at her.

 _"I am Lord Robin Arryn of the Vale!"_ He shouts and the Grey Hall's laughter dies down, all eyes watching them.

Lady Mormont raises an eyebrow. "I've never heard of you."

This is probably not true. _Lady Mormont's hardly uninformed._ Lord Robin's eyes bulge and his cheeks flush red. He opens his mouth, no doubt to shout, but Littlefinger shakes the young boy's shoulder and whispers in his ear. Lord Robin's mouth clamps shut and he scowls in silence at her.

Jon Snow takes this as an opportune time to begin. He stands up, and the silence becomes absolute, everyone waiting on their King of the North. _Will I ever get used to this?_ "My Lords and Ladies, thank you all for coming. I recognize House Reed and the Brotherhood without Banners have not arrived yet. The former has yet to swear allegiance and the latter has taken the Twins in the Neck—their journey would take too long for the matters at hand. We must begin without them, unfortunately."

There are murmurs throughout the hall, most in approval. Jon continues, "It's come to my attention that a woman named Daenerys Targaryen is sailing for Westeros as we speak." as soon as the word _Targaryen_ escapes his mouth, the room grumbles. "She could be in King's Landing right now or she could still be miles away. The fact is that she is coming and she has three full grown dragons under her control as well as an army."

"How did you come by this information exactly?" Littlefinger asks over the crowd's bustling.

Jon frowns at him. "A trusted source in the citadel sent me a raven." More murmurs in the crowd, this time of suspicion and distrust. The other Lords at his table are also watching him with wrinkled brows and narrowed eyes. Jon knows how he must sound… but as King he has to make it clear. "He would never lie to me. It wasn't long ago I would've thought this was a jest. But if there are dragons coming then we need them in the war to come against the army of the dead."

Littlefinger smirks, crossing his legs and leaning back in his chair. "Alright, so where did your _trusted source_ learn this information from?"

"He's a Maester." Jon tells him.

Lord Baelish asks, "If that's true, then how would he learn about this supposed Dragon Queen that comes to destroy us all? Maester don't practice the art of magical foresight, last I checked."

More angry murmurs sprung up from all the men in the hall at the end of these words. _"I never said she comes to destroy us!"_ Jon shouts over them, "It doesn't matter how he found out—I trust him never to lie to me, especially when this information could save us all."

"From this supposed threat in the north you keep speaking of. _The Army of the Dead_." Littlefinger rolls his eyes and Lord Robin giggles loudly at his side, as do several men in the audience. "Do you have any evidence of this?"

"I've seen them. So have the Free Folk. So have the Night's Watch." Jon tells him angrily. "I'm not _lying_ to any of you right now. They are _coming_ and so is _she_."

"The last dragon died hundreds of years ago." says Lady Mormont, studying Jon's face with narrowed eyes, "How could she have three full grown ones?"

"I don't know." Jon says.

"How big is this army of hers?" asks Lord Manderly.

"I don't know." Jon says again.

"Where did she come from? How is this possible?" asks Lord Glover.

 _"I don't know!"_

"It appears you know nothing, Jon Snow." Littlefinger scoffs, and Jon has an impulse to hit him. _He is being especially brazen today. Why? Is he putting on a show for the others?_ Lord Baelish's insult divides the room. Half laugh while the other roars with anger, spitting insults at the laughers. The laughers, Jon notes, are mostly Knights of the Vale. Lord Robin Arryn also finds this quite amusing, his chair rocking loudly as he barks out laughter.

"You speak to your King, Littlefinger." growls Lord Cerwyn.

" _The King in the North_ , yes, I'm well aware." Littlefinger smirks, "Perhaps our _King_ is not as _honest_ as he would have the rest of you believe?"

"What are you saying?" Lord Manderly asks over the screaming northerners, "This sounds close to treason, _Baelish_."

Littlefinger waits until the room quiets down before he answers. "I'm suggesting the King has ulterior motives. After-all, why would a Stark seek the aid of a Targaryen after the horrors they committed against his family?"

Jon's baffled, and remembers their conversation in the crypts. _He knows. He knows who I am, who I really am. How? How does he know? How could he possibly?_ "I swear to you all, my motives are pure. I would have us all march south to King's Landing today and make alliances with both Daenerys and Cersei before they can go to war with _each other!_ We need everyone we can on _our side!_ It doesn't matter what happened in _the past!_ What matters is that we find a way to survive _the future!_ "

To his relief, many men in the crowd cheer. All of the sudden nearly half the room is up off their seats and crying _"THE KING IN THE NORTH!"_ Jon smiles and stands, lifting his hands to quiet the room. "There must always be a Stark in Winterfell, however. I would appoint Sansa as Warden in the North in my stead while I go south. She will rule until my return." At this, Sansa looks up at him for the first time that morning, her eyes glazed over with shock. He smiles down at her before returning his attention to the room. "We also need to leave a substantial force behind in case The Wall comes under attack and The White Walkers invade. Lord Arryn, I would ask your Knights of the Vale to do this."

The young Lord scowls and picks at a piece of chipped wood on the table. "I'll let Father decide." He sighs heavily, "I don't really care as long as I have Knights to protect _me_."

Littlefinger stands up then, facing Jon at first before turning to the other Lords as though he's about to make an impressive statement. "The Vale is loyal to House Stark." He says leisurely, "That is why, I'm afraid, I must… _refuse_ , Your Grace."

"Not this again." growls Lord Manderly. "It doesn't matter that he's a Bastard, Baelish. He is still our King and Stark blood runs through his veins. Sit down before you make a fool of—"

 _"He's not a Stark…"_

The voice captures the room's attention, for it originates from the person everyone in the room was ignoring up until now. Jon looks down at Sansa, at complete loss for words. She sits frozen in her chair, facing everyone with a cold, blank stare. _What did she just say?_

"What do you mean?" asks Lady Mormont, glaring suspiciously at Sansa.

Sansa's glossy eyes flicker around the room, before finally landing on Jon. "He's not my brother." she says, her voice surprisingly steady, "He's—"

"Sansa…" Jon whispers softly, and she stops. They meet each other's eyes, and in that moment, nobody else in the room exists anymore. It's just him and Sansa...

 _You know nothing, Jon Snow_.

He turns to the rest of the noble Lords and ladies, knowing what he must do now. "She speaks the truth… I am not a Stark… not truly. I'm the son of _Rhaegar Targaryen_ and _Lyanna Stark_."

Jon expects more shouts, more cries, more protests… Instead, all he gets is stunned silence. Nobody says anything. An awkward tension follows his words, hundreds of mouths hanging open in disbelief. Then comes the dawning realization on each and every one of their faces that this isn't a joke, this is real.

"This is _horseshit_." mutters Lord Manderly, "You lied to us? _This whole time!"_

"Calm down, let him speak." says Lord Glover, though his voice quivers with insecurity, frowning at Jon from across the table. "Surely this must be a lie, Your Grace?"

"It's no lie." Jon sighs, "I'm Targaryen, in truth, before I'm a Stark."

"The only lie is the one that got you where you are today." Littlefinger says, and there are cries of approval from the Knights of the Vale.

"Aye, I lied. I only just found out a _fortnight ago!_ " Jon yells over them, "I knew it would cause a problem and we have _bigger problems at hand!"_

"According to you." Littlefinger says, "I would argue that _this_ is a very big problem. The King of the North has _always_ been a _Stark_. How can we follow a man with the same blood of the _Mad King_? A man who only comes clean when the truth is forced out of him?" Almost all of the other Lords, all except Lady Mormont, glare at Jon. The love they once had for him dissolves into hate. _This is the power a name has… The power your own blood holds over you…_

What Littlefinger says next, Jon saw coming, and was powerless to stop. "I notion to remove Jon Snow, or Jon _Targaryen_ , from his position for his confessed treason. Let us follow a true Stark, one who would not have us freeze to death fighting imagined enemies in the north, but real enemies that want to see us dead in the south!"

The approval from the crowd is tremendous. All of the Knights of the Vale are on their feet, shouting indiscriminately. Many of the other northerners are getting up and shouting as well—though it's impossible to make out anything they cry. Jon raises his hands to silence them, but this time it doesn't work… It's not until Sansa stands that the room quiets down.

 _"Lord Baelish is wrong!"_ She announces to everyone's utter shock. "Jon did not willingly commit treason. He was elected before he knew the truth about his blood." _Why is she standing up for me now_? _The damage is done…_

"He is still the blood of the dragon." growls Lord Cerwyn. "This is _unacceptable_. He could've told us!"

 _"His mother was a Stark!"_ Lady Mormont shouts over the rest of them, "We elected him because he is our rightful King! I don't care what blood he has, who his father was, or what he decides to keep to himself! _He is my King_!"

 _"The Targaryens have madness in their blood!"_ Lord Manderly blusters, "Everyone knows it! How can we trust _him_ now?!"

"We can't." Littlefinger sighs, "Which is why we should put it to a vote, just as we did when we elected him—only now, there's a new contender for the Winter Throne."

Slowly being backed into a corner, Jon can only gape helplessly at everyone. _Why is this happening? How could I let this happen? How can I stop this?_ _What do I say?_

 _You know nothing, Jon Snow._

Sansa says, "If I am chosen to be Queen, I will take our forces south, but not to make peace. Together we are nearly 50,000 strong to the Lannister's 40,000. The Mad Queen thinks she is safe behind her walls, but the realm hates her. Dorne, The Reach, every Kingdom in Westeros wants her dead." Her words are well received. Lord Manderly and Cerwyn are both nodding with approval, much to Jon's dread. "As the Queen of the North, I would see The Mad Queen answer for her crimes against my family, and all of our families!" A swell of cheers follow these words.

"Are we really discussing this?" Lord Glover asks with a scowl. "There's never been a Queen in the north. What of Brandon Stark? He is a _male!_ He is next in line, isn't he?"

"Lord Brandon is a crippled boy with no knowledge of war or politics, he is not the King the North requires right now. Times are changing, Lord Glover." Littlefinger raises his eyebrow at the man across from him, "Perhaps it's time _you_ caught up."

 _"Our King is standing right here!"_ Lady Mormont bellows angrily at them. _"How can you all so easily go back on your word?! How can you so easily betray him!?"_

 _"We're the ones who were betrayed_!" Lord Manderly thunders, to a swell of shouts behind him, "I believed in him! I trusted him! And now I find out he's been hiding the truth from us!" There are tears of pain in the old man's eyes as he glares at Jon. "Were you ashamed of it? Is that why? Born of rape from a line of insanity…"

"I'd want to hide it too." Lord Baelish sighs to more laughter from the Knights of the Vale, "Sadly he _did_ hide it. You've been silent for a while, _Your Grace_. Any final words before we proceed?"

Jon stares in bewilderment at the Lords around him, feeling like he's seventeen again, having no place at the table… "I…" He pauses, his heart beating in his ears. "I beg of you all, please, try and see what's at stake… if you do this, you're sentencing yourselves to death. _The Dead are coming!_ None of this matters! Stark, Lannister, Targaryen— _the Dead will kill us all_!"

"If by some unforeseeable miracle, they make it over The Wall… and actually exist." adds Littlefinger. He looks pleased as the crowds of men all laugh, all but the few wildlings who scowl, gripping the hilts of their swords. "If that is all, I think now is the time. Nearly everyone in this room voted you as our King last time. Are we all in favor of voting again, this time between a Stark and a Targaryen?"

The uproar is deafening. _I'm King of the North and I'm powerless to stop this. Sansa…_ Jon looks to his sister… but she has eyes only for the crowd; a small, fierce smile upon her lips.

When Jon's name is called by Maester Wolkan, Lady Mormont and her three injured warriors stand, raising their swords. The few Free Folk allowed in the room, representing their people, did as well. Jon had hoped by some miracle the other noble Lords would follow. The Vale would already vote for Sansa, this much is obvious. But if Manderly, Glover, and Cerwyn sided with Jon then he would have more, yet the only other Lords in the crowd to side with Jon are the Forresters, Glenmores, Wibberleys, and Hornwoods…

When Sansa's name is called, Manderly rises, followed closely by Cerwyn, as well as most of the Lords out in the hall and all of the Knights of the Vale… Lord Glover gives Jon a rueful grimace before standing and raising his blade, joining the countless others… _It's an overwhelming majority…_

Littlefinger grins, showing his teeth at Jon. "All hail Sansa Stark, _The Queen in the North!_ "

 _"The Queen in the North!"_ cries Lord Manderly.

 _"The Queen in the North!"_ rumbles Lord Glover.

 _"The Queen in the North!"_ shouts Lord Cerwyn.

 _"THE QUEEN IN THE NORTH!"_ thunders the Grey Hall so all in Winterfell would hear, _"THE QUEEN IN THE NORTH! THE QUEEN IN THE NORTH! THE QUEEN IN THE NORTH! THE QUEEN IN THE NORTH! THE QUEEN IN THE NORTH! THE QUEEN IN THE NORTH!"_

Suddenly Knights of the Vale are approaching Jon from both sides. He grips Longclaw but they grab a hold of his arms before he can draw. The few Wildlings in the room release their swords, followed by a chorus of Vale Knights rounding their blades on them. " _No! Stop_!" Jon screams at them, "I command all of you to _stand down_!"

"Release him." Sansa says quietly and the Knights of the Vale immediately follow her command instead of his. "Jon, you have been my brother for as long as I've known you. You will not be tried for treason nor will you be treated as a criminal for as long as I rule. I have no intention of hurting you, so please, everyone, _calm down_." Sansa is glaring at Littlefinger as she speaks, and her voice has a forcefulness Jon has never heard in her before.

"What shall we do with him then?" Littlefinger asks with narrowed eyes, appearing displeased for the first time that day. "He cannot stay here, not after this."

"You don't make those decisions, Lord Baelish." Sansa's smile widens. " _I do now._ Jon wants to go find Daenerys Targaryen. I will _allow_ him to do so." She doesn't look at him as she speaks, only to the crowd. "He may bring as many of you who wish to follow him as he needs. I will not consider it a slight. Please. I would rather he take as many as he can. In fact, take all the Wildlings…" Sansa's expression tightens as she continues on, "We do not have enough room or food to help you any longer. We've given you all we can. Now is the time your people find a new home in the south. _Winter is here_ and it's no longer safe for _any_ of us to stay _here_. Soon, we will march south ourselves, take back the Kingdoms from the Lannisters, and I will have _The Mad Queen's head."_

Jon Snow slowly descends the stairs. He feels hundreds of eyes watching him march down the center of the Grey Hall to the cheering of _"Queen in the North!"_ Before he exits, Jon turns back at Sansa. Her face is staring in his direction but it's clear at once she's not looking at him. It's as though her eyes are staring straight through him, empty and emotionless… _Like I'm already dead._


	80. Cersei VI

Cersei

The door to the Queen's chambers open, announcing Qyburn's arrival. Cersei Lannister finishes placing the crown upon her head before she turns and faces her Hand. Standing behind him in the doorway, as usual, towers The Mountain; his golden armor still covered in blood, dents, and bruises from earlier… Cersei forbids him from changing it, and the giant _always_ listens to her. _Always…_

"Your Grace." Qyburn says with a courteous bow. It's early in the morning, even for him, it seems, but Cersei seems refreshed and awake as ever, even though the sun was barely rising outside her balcony. All night long, all she could think about was the massacre that took place in her own filthy streets four days ago. Nightmares plague her every time she falls asleep, envisioning The Mountain's blade coming down over her own head in front of everyone in King's Landing—Jaime grinning and laughing heartily with some big, brutish woman Cersei faintly remembers meeting once. It was as Jaime and the woman lean in and kiss that the sword slices through Cersei's neck, yet she doesn't die, she can still see their tongues dancing—even as her head tumbles down into a dark, empty void… Nothing, not even the medicine Qyburn gave her, could prevent these nightmares from happening… so Cersei doesn't sleep.

"Explain something to me, Qyburn." Cersei says distantly, moving to her table to pour herself a goblet of wine, "The Mountain's _eruption_ yesterday."

"A _misfortunate accident,_ to be sure." Qyburn sighs, eyeing the wine in her hand, " _Tragic_ accident. All of those brave, innocent soldiers…"

"Yes." Cersei narrows her eyes and takes a drink, watching Qyburn quietly. When she lowers the cup, she says, "What went wrong, exactly?"

"If I had to guess, it was when you commanded him to ' _kill them all'_. The Mountain is obedient to a fault, Your Grace. He did as he was commanded…"

 _Is he telling me this is my fault?_ Cersei grits her teeth but keeps her expression like stone. "So, he is loyal but incompetent. Perhaps you should have made these rules clear with me beforehand."

"I take _full_ responsibility, Your Grace. _Luckily_ , I was there to prevent him from causing even more harm than what we suffered."

" _How_ exactly did you do that?" Cersei asks, taking another sip of her goblet and sitting down in a golden armchair.

Qyburn chuckles. "It's _difficul_ t to explain."

 _"Try."_

"I am his _master._ His _creator_. His _father,_ if you will." Qyburn smiles, revealing unclean teeth. "He does what I tell him to. He knows to follow your orders, and as long as I'm around he will continue to do so." Cersei notices his eyes don't quite meets hers as he speaks. _What's he hiding?_

"Careful, Qyburn. You are my Hand. I've enjoyed your help… I've given you more power than you've ever been given. Do not _lie_ to me now."

"I would never lie to you, Your Grace." Qyburn says with a reassuring smile. "I live to serve you."

"If that's true then you will find me replacement Queensguard at once."

"There are many suitors ready for your audience, though none are as strong as The Mountain. I asked Ser Addam Marbrand, but he declined… he also appears to have left the capital after the rebellion was silenced, strangely enough... Asides from that, you have five good men ready for _inspection_ , Your Grace."

 _Five more subjects to bend over later._ "Thank you, Lord Hand. You may go. Have your Little Birds follow Ser Addam and make sure he isn't riding out to meet our enemies and betray us, perhaps we might locate the Dornish or Tyrell Forces hiding in the Kingswood... Also, Qyburn, inform _Dickon Tarly_ he is to see me again in my chambers tonight."

Qyburn bows before he exits. When the door shuts, Cersei exhales and removes the crown from her head, holding it in both her hands like she was holding a newborn child… _This is what's left… This is what remains of my legacy. My children are just names now… Perhaps this is what father always feared. I have everything I ever wanted. How long? How long will this last? How long before I just become a name?_

Her goblet's empty... Cersei refills it, spilling crimson liquor over her scarred fingers.


	81. A Gold Cloak

A Gold Cloak

Orwen Apperford has no desire to get up and go to work this morning. It was still dark as he climbs out of bed and throws on his golden cloak. The armor weighs heavily on his arms and legs, but he's used to it now. Dragging himself out of his house and spitting at a homeless man on the ground for good luck, Orwen begins his daily patrol. He's especially irritable after nearly losing his head to The Mountain a few days ago; Orwen was one of the _lucky_ ones… He'd seen the Hand of the Queen come rushing down and calm the giant somehow, as if by magic... It was all so strange and frightening. Orwen doesn't dare bring it up to his superiors. _Anyone who asks too many questions attracts the wrong sort of attention in this city._ _Keep my nose down and do my duty, that's all I got to worry about… well, that, and some filthy beggar breaking into my home while I'm gone and stealing my things._ More than anything else, Orwen is frightened by the Queen most of all. When she gave the order to murder all of those people… Thousands dead in minutes. It was horrible. Of course, Orwen had no love for the little whelps—but the fact that so many could be wiped out so quickly, and that the Queen's own bodyguard was able to get away with slaughtering his own men… It was times like these he wished The Hand hadn't banned everyone from using the ravens so Orwen could write to his mother in Lannisport.

He passes by several other Gold Cloaks descending the stairway of the eastern wall, chatting grumpily about how tired they are. Orwen doesn't know them so he trudges along, wondering if Clayton would be on duty today and cursing himself for not taking a piss before leaving. As he climbs up the wall's causeway, the sun starts to give light to his path. The Gold Cloak named Orwen has his eyes on his crotch, trying to unfasten it with haste. When he reaches the parapets, he looks over his shoulder to make sure no one was watching, then releases his cock to piss over the wall and into the Blackwater below.

 _"Ahhh..."_ he sighs, gazing off into the ocean with a relieved smile…

…His smile falls away. His eyes go wide. His piss rattles off his own plated boots, speckling his golden cloak, as his cock goes limp in his hands. Orwen's eyes have landed upon the largest fleet of war ships he's ever seen, lining the horizon from one end of the countryside to the other, filling the entrance to Blackwater Bay… but it's what flies above them all that makes Orwen scream in terror to his fellow Gold Cloaks down below, his cock still wagging about, "LOOK TO THE EAST! _DRAGONS!_ DRAGONS ARE COMING!"


	82. Cersei VII

Cersei

The first thing she does is grab the crown. She places it over her head calmly, staring into her mirror as Qyburn's words repeat over and over in her mind. She stands and allows her handmaidens to adorn her in the same black, battle-gown she wore the day she burned the Sept. Once they are finished, Cersei takes Widow's Wale and slides it into its golden sheath, equipping it at her side as if she was a battle-hardened warrior. She then joins Qyburn in her chambers, who waits for her nervously. The Mountain is there as well, quiet as ever. The Queen moves to her window, overlooking Blackwater Bay where, off in the distance, she sees for herself the massive fleet approaching… and soaring over them in circles like giant bats are three unmistakable dragons.

Cersei says nothing as she strolls past her Hand and Mountain. They follow her all the way down the Red Keep until she is in the throne room. Cersei sits down on the Iron Throne, leaning back against its blades while her sword rests across her lap.

"What is the plan, Your Grace?" Qyburn asks, his voice quivering with excitement.

Cersei just stares ahead at the giant, Iron doors and says, "I'll wait."


	83. Daenerys V

Daenerys

Drogon takes flight, causing Tyrion to tug hard on her waist to keep from falling off. _"I don't like this as much as I remember!"_ She hears him shout over the whipping wind.

 _"Hold on tight!"_ Dany hollers over her shoulder. It'll take them at least twenty minutes to fly to the Red Keep. As Drogon flaps his mighty wings, Viserion and Rhaegal roar after their mother and brother, begging to come along. Dany told them to stay before leaving, and like she had hoped, they obediently remained behind aboard _The Red Wind_ … _I only need one dragon with me for this. Forgive me, my children. Your time will come._

King's Landing is bigger than she imagined it. The Red Keep towers over the cityscape at the edge of the ocean… and in the distance, a crater of rubble scars the earth where the Sept once stood, or so she guesses. _"Welcome home."_ says Tyrion in her ear, bringing a grin to her face. _This is it._ _I'm finally here._ The people in the streets, going about their regular day, all point up to the skies and shriek. Dany's pride swells, her dragon's shadow sweeping over thousands and thousands of men, women, and children. Drogon roars as loud as he can, making his presence known for miles.

"Let's _land_!" Dany cries, so Drogon swoops down toward the Red Keep. When they strike with the steps to the castle—the ground trembles violently. Hundreds of Lannister soldiers that guard the long, wide stairs all trip over themselves to back away, some with bows and arrows pointed at the giant monster. Drogon turns his eyes on them, viciously licking his lips. Many of them flee, clearing the rest of the stairway for Dany. Instead of dismounting them, Drogon climbs up the rest of the way on his claws, growling and snapping his teeth at every guard still brave enough to stand by. The courtyard fills with people all coming to gawk at the wonder that has abruptly flown into their lives.

The gigantic doors groan to life as an ordinary old man steps out in black Maester robes, the Hand of the Queen badge pinned to his chest like Tyrion's. With him are ten Lannister guards, all of whom are uneasily watching the dragon with their swords ready. Qyburn's expression is that of amazement and awe. "Never in all my years did I think to find myself face to face with a dragon… My brother would be jealous to hear of this…"

"Where is _your_ Queen?" Daenerys calls down to him from atop Drogon's back.

"Queen Cersei awaits you in the Throne Room. She suspected you might come to negotiate first."

"I didn't come to negotiate anything." Dany says, "I could invade right now if I wished it. I've come to offer your Queen mercy, not for her life, but the life of the people who live here."

"You'll have to offer mercy _inside_ …" Qyburn replies.

"This ought to be interesting." Tyrion grimaces. "What if we'd prefer to have her meet us out here instead? You see, there's a little problem with the dragon not fitting through the door. We could always just _remove_ the door, but then _we_ will end up owning that broken door and that just won't do."

Qyburn chuckles, "I'm afraid that won't be possible. The Queen will give you an audience in the Throne Room or there will be none at all. Your _dragon_ …" Drogon hisses a threat at the small old man, getting right up in his face and sniffing him. Qyburn gulps, a trail of sweat rolling down his forehead. "Your dragon is welcome to stay here on the steps until you return. You have our word he will not be harmed."

Daenerys leers at this. "It's your men who should be worried. When I'm not around, the dragons can be restless and impatient. Drogon is especially rebellious. If one of you even gives him a wrong look, or steps just a little too close… I won't be there to stop him from doing as he likes."

"The Queen has a monster of a similar nature. I completely understand." Qyburn assures her, and the fear in his men's eyes tell her they did as well. Dany and Tyrion both climb carefully off from the dragon. Dany whispers " _Wait for me_." and Drogon only reels his head back in response, glaring down the steps of the Red Keep. Qyburn ushers them inside, "Please, follow me."

The Throne Room is just as lengthy and impressive as it had been when Dany envisioned it in the House of the Undying. In the vision, the room was caved in and snow cascades over everything. It was as though some great fire had taken place. Now though, the hall's perfectly normal. Both sides of the hall are crowded with nobles and Lords, whispering as Dany and Tyrion stride by. Sitting on the Iron Throne, Cersei Lannister watches them approach. Daenerys stops before the steps as both Hands join each of their respective Queen's sides. On Cersei's other side stands a very large man in golden armor, painted red with blood. Behind him are six, much smaller, Queensguard.

"Do you know who I am?" Dany asks the Queen, her head held high. Cersei doesn't respond. Her eyes flick to Tyrion, and the absolute loathing that contorts her face reminds Dany of her brother, Viserys, when he _woke the dragon_.

"It's good to see you again, dear sister." Tyrion greets with a scowl. "I _like_ the new hair, makes you look like a man. Isn't _that_ what you always wanted?"

Cersei stiffens on the throne before she speaks, "All this time… All this time I wondered what became of the monster that murdered my father and son." Her scowl curls into a cruel smirk, "I thought even you were wise enough to know that showing your face here again would spell out certain death. I had _convinced_ myself I would never see you again. I _believed_ you'd died somewhere far away, and the thought gave me so much _delight_ I dared not think it untrue."

"Yet here I am," Tyrion grins, "Kingslayer, Kinslayer, and Hand of the Queen. Allow me to introduce Daenerys Targaryen, Mother of Dragons, Breaker of Chains, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, and soon to be Queen of Westeros."

"Is that what you call her?" Cersei asks with a laugh rising in her throat. "Since she's with you, I assumed she was merely your new whore."

"Assuming anything about me will only make it easier to take back what is mine, Cersei Lannister." Daenerys says boldly, unafraid of the 'Mad Queen' before her. Cersei's smirk slides a little, but her expression remains callous as Dany goes on to say, "The throne you sit upon belongs to me. I've returned at long last to take back the Kingdoms that are mine by birthright. I have an army that's much larger than yours, I have more allies than you have, and just in case you haven't heard, I have three _dragons_ that follow my every command. That's what you face. Let there be no misunderstandings, I am here as a _courtesy_ to my Hand. If not for Tyrion, we wouldn't be _speaking_ right now. Your city would instead be under siege and there would be nothing you could do to stop it. You are his sister and I felt you deserved a chance to surrender and save the lives of all your men before facing complete annihilation."

Cersei tilts her head back, leaning confidently into the throne's iron spines. Dany notices her hands are bleeding. "Eddard Stark thought to give me the same courtesy once. When he discovered that Jaime and I were the true parents of my children, he gave me a chance to leave before he told King Robert the truth. He said he did it so that I might spare my children's lives from Robert's wrath." Cersei's grin is maddening, her eyes shine with both rage and glee. "Eddard Stark discovered that _my_ wrath far exceeded the King's—or any other, in fact. The High Sparrow learned this as well when I _blew up_ the Sept. My _only_ regret was not being there to see his dirty face when he realized the mistake he made crossing me. No doubt, right up until the very end, he was _just_ as confident as you are now."

"Y'know, this might all just be a game to you, but this _isn't_ a game." Tyrion says, "This is real. You stand to lose everything. Not just your life and your power but the lives of all your men."

"The purpose of those men's lives are to protect their Queen, even until death. They are only fulfilling their purpose, as far as I'm concerned." Cersei sighs, "You know I expected your threats to be tangible. I've seen your fleet. Your army is not larger than mine, dear girl; whoever you have counseling you has made a grave error, though I can see why, judging by who you have as your Hand." Dany just smirks at this, glad to see that Cersei was unaware of her much larger, primary force marching on the western walls as they speak. Queen Cersei goes on, "All I see is a child and an imp making mediocre extortions. If I'd known this was all you had to challenge me, I wouldn't have bothered meeting you at all."

"Perhaps I should allow Drogon to knock your doors down so you might see how wrong you are." Daenerys threatens, growing annoyed but keeping her cool. _The Mad Queen isn't going to make this easy._

"I'm well aware of your dragons. Quite fearsome indeed. Without them, though, I can't say I see much in you, dear. Pretty face, maybe, nice body, sure, but you're nothing more than a beggar coming for her daddy's wealth. Sorry to say you're too late. _I will not surrender the throne nor my city."_

Daenerys says, "Then there _will_ be war."

Cersei replies, "So be it."

"This is folly." Tyrion shakes his head, "Cersei, even you cannot be this naïve."

"Naïve was coming here without protection. My Mountain could cut the both of you down before you even leave, all he's waiting for is my word."

"The moment you do I'll call for Drogon." Daenerys says assertively. "I wonder if your ' _Mountain_ ' can withstand _Dragonfire_?"

Both Queen's glare daggers at each other, neither backing down. Perhaps Tyrion knew where this was going, and that's why he changes the subject, "Tell me, sweet sister, where is our brother, Jaime? I was hoping to see him here, but…"

"He's away. That's all _you_ need to know." Cersei snaps at him, "Jaime has no desire to ever _see_ you again. He feels responsible for our father's death, you know, and he _should_. It was his weakness that took down the great, Tywin Lannister."

"Actually, it was a bolt to the chest while he sat on the loo." Tyrion corrects her, wincing as the memories of that fateful night resurface. "It's a shame. I'd always heard father was so rich he could shit gold. I was disappointed to find out that wasn't the case."

"You _dare_ insult my father before me? " Cersei's cold demeanor cracks, revealing her ugliness.

"The world is a better place without Tywin Lannister in it." Tyrion retorts, "And it will be an even better one once you're gone too. You know, father and the Mad King hated each other. I wonder what he would think if he could hear what they call his daughter now?"

 _"Get. Out_." Cersei seethes between clenched teeth, her fingers buried in the blades of her throne, dripping blood all over the floor.

"Gladly." Daenerys says, "Enjoy your last night on this earth, Cersei. When the sun rises, look to the east; for three dragons and _all_ of my army _will_ be coming for you."

Cersei slowly shakes her head, grinning manically. "You are fools if you think I will let you take my _city!_ My _throne!_ My _crown_! I will see this city _burn_ before you ever sit where I am! _All of you will burn!_ _Men, women, children—Every last one of them will suffer before you ever take this throne away from me!_ " The Mad Queen's screams chase them all the way out of the Throne Room. Dany and Tyrion walk briskly, but with grace, so as not to show fear. In truth, Dany's heart storms in her ears.

Once they are outside, Drogon growls and lowers his head in for her to pet. Dany touches the cool, black scales on the dragon and feels reassured once more. She glances down at Tyrion, and is shocked to find him crying. "What's wrong?" she asks, kneeling down and touching his shoulder gently.

Tyrion smiles, furiously wiping his eyes. "I used to love her, you know, and not even like a sister. When we were children, I thought she was the most beautiful girl in the world. I wondered all the time if my mother looked like her. I was jealous of Jaime for having her affections while I only received her disdain. Eventually I grew to despise her, but first there was _genuine_ love. I tried so hard to get her to like me. Nothing was ever good enough. I was always the little monster that murdered our mother coming into the world." He sniffs, looking up at Daenerys with sad determination. "I said it before, and I'll say it again; Cersei _must_ be taken down..."


	84. Qyburn

Qyburn

 _"How did this happen, Qyburn?! How the_ _fuck_ _did this_ _happen?!_ _"_

They're up in her chambers. Cersei paces back and forth across with a goblet of wine in her hands, spilling it all over the place. Qyburn sits at the table writing the letter to Jaime that Cersei had just finished spelling out for him. It was rather _desperate,_ in his opinion, yet when he informed the Queen that her brother is too far in the north to make it back in time, Cersei threatened to remove his head.

Cersei blames Qyburn for not foreseeing this event. _How could I?_ Trying to explain reason to Cersei about this would prove dangerous, so instead he just says, "Rumors about Daenerys and her dragons have been circulating for years, Your Grace. Even you must've known about her. To give such rumors justification seemed unsightly at the time. I had no idea she was coming, however. Last I'd heard, she had a small force in Meereen, but that was it."

"Father _knew_ this day would come." Cersei mutters to herself, not appearing to hear a word he says. "He knew she would be a threat one day. I didn't listen. I thought, _how could dragons possibly exist again?_ I believed it was all lies because those are exactly the sort of lies people tell themselves to sleep better at night. _Dragons_ …" She glares out her window where, in the distance, she can see them… All three are soaring in circles. Their roars echo through the sky from miles away… Cersei lifts her cup and drinks the entire thing before automatically lowering it and reaching for the pitcher to refill.

As she drones on, complaining, Qyburn seals the letter to Jaime and then unfurls a second piece of parchment. He writes another letter,

 _My Dearest Brother, Marwyn_

 _I know I don't write to you enough, for that I apologize. Your entire life you've been studying abroad the mystic nature of things whereas I've preferred to study the same things in private. Our methods might be different but our dreams are the same. Today, I witnessed one of those dreams come to life before my eyes. Daenerys Targaryen is finally in King's Landing, like you always said she would. I never believed you, for that I also apologize. She has three full grown dragons with her. I was face to face with the black one she calls Drogon. To put it mildly, it was breathtaking to behold. It doesn't appear that I will be Hand of the Queen for long. In fact, I might be long dead by the time you read this. If so, then maybe it was for the best. You know how long I've yearned to comprehend what waits for us beyond this hell we call life. My only regret is that we never found a way to work together. We are brothers, and I just wanted you to know that my last thoughts were with you._

"What are you writing?" Cersei asks suspiciously.

"I'm calling the banners, Your Grace." Qyburn lies, "She had a good point, we need more allies."

"And what allies do we have left as our disposal?" Cersei sways drunkenly as she glares down at him from across the room. "We have 50,000 men at our disposal. Look at her ships. How many men on each ship are there? Thirty? Forty? Her army can't be larger than mine if that's all she has brought. 10,000 at the most… how could she possibly believe her's is larger than mine?"

"Yet she claims it is." Qyburn sighs, "Dragons are not to be underestimated, Your Grace."

Cersei simmers, drinking her wine, watching the three dragons…

"Jaime should reach this letter by the time he arrives in Winterfell… hopefully. If not, the letter may tip the King of the North off about Ser Jaime's arrival…"

"I don't wish to hear it, Qyburn. Just send the bloody letter." Cersei spills more wine down her fingers, flinching as the alcohol burns her fresh, throne-carved cuts. "Have your little birds finished setting everything up?"

"Nearly. They should be finished by morning, before the battle..."

"Then we might survive this yet, Qyburn." Cersei smirks. "Tell Randyll Tarly to have the eastern walls manned with as many soldiers that will fit. Blackwater Bay is going to go up in flames when the sun rises, and I want our entire army defending those walls when it does. Leave me be for now, I wish to drink alone."

"Yes, my Queen." He stands, folding the letters into his robes and bowing before he exits the chamber. Outside her door The Mountain stands guard, reeking of death. Qyburn smiles knowingly up to him before descending the corridor.

Before heading to the ravenry, Qyburn goes down beneath the Red Keep to meet with several of his most loyal Little Birds. There are five in all. Qyburn gives them their orders and tells them to spread the word for the rest. They would be up all night preparing for tomorrow's battle… and sacrifices would need to be made.

Once Qyburn makes his way up to the top of the tower that houses every raven in the city, he ties each of the letters to two of the white raven's legs. One was trained to fly for Winterfell while the other was trained for Oldtown. All around him the birds squawk loudly, Qyburn can barely hear himself think. He steps across a floor riddled with bird droppings and opens the window, releasing each of his couriers out into the sky. Qyburn watches as they fly off through the snow in opposite directions, a small, peaceful smile on his face. He closes the windows, and as they click shut, a cold, piercing pain in his stomach makes him gasp.

Qyburn looks down and sees a blade, thin as a needle, protruding from his belly. It slides back inside, disappearing as quickly as it appeared. Qyburn tastes blood in his mouth and coughs, clutching the bird cages to keep from falling as ravens scream all around him. He turns around to see who the owner of the blade is, and is shocked to find the little boy, Lommy, standing there holding the sword at his side, a blank, innocent look on his face. _"W-Why?"_ Qyburn moans, collapsing weakly into the bird shit.

Lommy removes his face as if it's a mask… and a young girl stands before him now. She's smiling down at him, watching him suffer. _"Who are you?"_ He asks.

"My name is Arya Stark."

 _Stark?!_ "You're… not dead." Qyburn wheezes as blood trails down his chin.

"No. I'm not. But you will be soon," Arya kneels down beside his feet, wiping needle over her lap to remove Qyburn's blood from it. "I want to know some things first."

Qyburn grins, and the involuntary reaction pains him. "What is it, child?"

"The Mountain. What is he, really?"

Qyburn hesitates before deciding there was no point hiding it. _Death has come for me. This little girl…_ "Why do you want to know?"

"You know why." Arya says, her voice flat and emotionless.

"The Mountain… he died from the poison Oberyn Martell laced his spear with… He is no longer _The Mountain_. He's… a shell of the man he once was…"

"Can he be killed?"

"He's already dead. So no, he cannot be killed. Brave men have tried." Qyburn coughs again. "If you are looking for a weakness, you're out of luck. A little sword like that can stab an old man like me, but a behemoth in armor like him… a little girl with a little blade… doesn't stand a chance against him."

"Everything has a weakness. He's dead but you brought him back." Arya states coldly, "How?"

"Magic." Qyburn smiles. "You might find that hard to believe." He coughs again, and his vision begins to cloud. _It's coming. I never thought… Dying like this… I suppose it's better than other ways to go._ His hand comes up from his belly, and his palm is red and sticky… "Any more questions?"

"No." Arya says, "Just need one more thing from you."

"What's that?"

She crawls up on top of him and vehemently tilts his head back. Qyburn screams as her dagger carves the flesh of his face away. Her legs keep his frail arms pinned to the floor while she works. He squirms and squeals under her but her strength overpowers him. Qyburn's shrieks of agony are drowned in the endless babbling of the white ravens.


	85. Sansa VIII

Sansa

The Queen in the North wakes from her sleep, convinced her election yesterday was just a dream. Slowly, Sansa Stark crawls out of bed and dresses herself, memories flooding back to her of that fateful moment; Everyone looking around the Grey Hall, arguing over what to do while Littlefinger sets her up so that her words have the highest impact they can... _I told them Jon isn't my brother… that he isn't a Stark… Littlefinger was right, that's all I had to say. The loyalty of the Northern Lords didn't matter when the truth came out. Loyalty only extends so far…_

Sansa brushes her hair, staring blankly at her reflection in the mirror, feeling different—elated, like nothing in the world could harm her anymore... There's only one thing that she can't content herself with, one thing that makes her question the entire decision: It was the look on Jon's face when he realized Sansa was betraying him. Everything in his eyes in that second broke her heart, for he truly did not see it coming at all… She couldn't look at him again after that without second-guessing herself… so ever since, Sansa avoids Jon. _He's leaving today for the south… I have to say farewell to him, as Queen of the North and a Stark, it's my duty…_

Sansa hires four new Handmaidens. Now that she's Queen, Sansa has need of more assistance. She doesn't have a Davos, she has a Littlefinger, and Sansa can't trust Littlefinger with all of her council. He'd gotten her this far, but Sansa won't forget his past offenses against her that easily. As for the other Lords, she keeps Manderly, Glover, and Cerwyn on as her council, but when she approaches Lady Mormont that morning, she finds out the Little Bear is planning on going with Jon and taking her forces with her. Sansa just smiles and wishes Lady Mormont the best of luck, reminding herself that she hardly had much of a force to begin with, so it's no great loss. The other Houses still sworn to Jon; Forrester, Glenmore, Wibberley, and Hornwoods, all announced that they would be going with Jon, as well. All in all, Jon was bringing a small army with him, just over a thousand in all—most women and children, from the Free Folk, who Sansa forbade from staying here any longer. _I hate to see starving people go out into the cold, even if they are Wildlings, but it's the only way. We don't have enough food or room in Winterfell to house this many of them. Honestly, what was Jon thinking? I know I should feel terrible about giving him up, but I really, truly, don't. Jon was never meant to be King. He never asked for it, and never wanted it. I did him a favor, really. This way he can do what he likes without worrying about the politics. One day, he might even thank me for this…_

Standing in the blistering, snowy courtyard and facing the open gates, Jon's people herd out into winter's blizzard, bundled up in as many warm clothing they could carry. Jon Snow stands by, watching them all leave, graciously nodding to Asher Forrester, Lady Glenmore, and Lady Mormont on their way under the gates. Sansa stands opposite of Jon, still not looking at him. Jon's being quiet, which was his wont, but his silence unnerves Sansa now. She can feel his resentment towards her even without looking at him, twenty feet apart… _He's about to leave Winterfell, and I'll have to look at him—I'll have to speak to him, one last time…_

Once the last of Jon's loyalists are through the gates, the courtyard feels empty—a blank, white canvas where only a few passing citizens and guards remain… Sansa and Jon face one-another, neither moving from their spot, frozen in the snow. She forces herself to look into his eyes, knowing this might be the last time she ever sees her… cousin.

"Farewell, Jon." Sansa says, her voice hardly heard over the wind.

Jon approaches her, his feet crunching through the snow. _What's he doing?_ Sansa stiffens, eyeing Longclaw in Jon's sheath. He's glaring at her, his long, black curls whipping about his face; _Is he going to hit me? Is he going to hurt me for what I've done?_

No, Jon Snow wraps his arms around her and pulls her into a familiar, warm embrace. Caught off guard, she only stands there and takes it, her heartbeat drumming in her ears. "Look after the North, while I'm gone." he whispers, and Sansa frowns, lifting her arms up and hugging him back. _If he comes back with Targaryens and Lannisters, the North will go to war with him—I won't be able to stop them, it won't matter that I'm Queen, they won't allow it to happen. Jon must know this… what's his plan?_

When they pull away, Sansa doesn't let him go, her hands moving on their own. Jon's expression is still dour, his eyes still full of pain. Her lips tremble, holding him there, unable to look at him yet unable to let him go… A flood of apologies almost comes tumbling out of her, she wants to be able to fix the pain, tell him she was sorry for lying to him and betraying him—that she doesn't care anymore about what he did, _none of it matters anymore now that I'm Queen._

But Sansa doesn't say any of this. "Stay safe, Jon." Her hands fall to her sides, letting go of him.

Jon takes one of his gloved hands and caresses Sansa's cheek before leaning in and kissing her softly on the forehead, where he once kissed her after taking back their home from the Boltons… When he pulls away, there are unwilling tears in Sansa's eyes. He whispers to her, before parting, _"You'll believe me, someday."_

Sansa returns to her tower, her handmaidens in the process of moving her things to her parent's old bedroom, and watches from her window as Jon and his small, miscellaneous group of Northerners and Wildlings, march southward…

To the north, the skies are black as night, even though it's only midday. It's as if an ocean of darkness was taking over the atmosphere, blinding the mountain peaks, slowly crawling its way for Winterfell. _The Long Night…_


	86. Bran VIII

Bran

The grove inside Greywater Watch has three overgrown, very old, white weirwood trees. Each displays a face crying red tears like all the rest. The ground is uneven, sprawling with roots that remind him of the Three-Eyed Raven's lair. "I've never seen three weirwood trees next to each other like this." He remarks as Meera helps him into the center between all three of them. He feels, like always, a strange presence from the trees, as though they were watching him, like living creatures trapped in bark.

"There's only one other place in the world that has this many… or had, at least, before they were all destroyed." Howland sighs, touching the bark of one of them with a sad expression. "The roots are all intertwined beneath you there… If the legends of the Three-Eyed Raven are true, then you should enter your vision when you grasp the roots where they all meet. I can't say for certain what will happen. Perhaps having three instead of one tree will help you in some unpredictable way."

Bran examines the roots, all jumbled together in a knot beside him. "Where am I going?" He asks.

"The Tournament at Harrenhal. It was the year before Robert's Rebellion, if that helps." Howland says.

"It might." Bran says, knowing only what Maester Luwin had taught him about the famous tourney that sparked Robert's Rebellion. "What do I look for?"

"Just find me and follow me wherever I go, _understand_?" Howland asks and Bran nods… _though if I see my father, or anyone in my family, I don't think I can pass up the opportunity to watch them…_

As soon as his palm grasps the giant knot of tangled roots, Bran's reality washes away and he is taken more than twenty years into the past…


	87. The Hound V

The Hound

Sandor Clegane doesn't understand any of the shit these people were talking about, or why the fuck the Stark boy's eyes rolled up into his head like he was dead, yet he finds himself speechless and helpless to stop any of it. After-all, it's what the Stark boy wanted to do. He's here to protect him… _but how do I protect him when he's as limp as a fish?_

Howland Reed stands beside The Red Woman, whispering to her. She has her hands folded over a bulge in her belly… _Is she pregnant?_ The Hound watches them from across the grove, leaning against one of the weirwood trees with his arms crossed over his armored chest. "Hey." He growls at the old, disfigured man, catching his attention.

Howland glares back at him. "What is it?"

"Why's your skin like that? You look like something I shat out last week."

 _"Watch your mouth!"_ Meera Reed barks furiously.

Howland chuckles. "It's alright, dear. Not all men have tact. I appreciate your honesty, though, I'm afraid your name escapes me."

"You wouldn't know me." He growls, "I'm only here to protect the kid."

"I'll hold you to that." Howland smirks. "To answer your question, I received Greyscale from a merchant traveling in the swamp."

The Hound stares hard at him. "A _merchant_?"

"Yes."

"Didn't know merchants could sell diseases." The Hound sniffs.

"This one did. It was disguised as a love potion…"

"That's odd." The Hound says.

"What is?"

"A merchant came into your swamp with a love potion that gave you greyscale… and you don't find anything odd about it?"

"He turned quite a profit from me. I was desperate for anything I could get my hands on back then." Howland sighs, examining his frail, deformed hands. "I'd give anything to go back to that day, find out who that merchant was, and make him pay for what he did. But he was gone as quickly as he appeared. None of the Crannogmen could find him, and I had thousands searching for days."

"Why'd you need a love potion, father?" Meera asks, frowning, "Was this before you met mother?"

Howland glances nervously at his daughter, and The Hound notices. "No, it was after I was promised to your mother, Meera… one day I'll explain it all to you, but not today. Forgive me, and rest assured, I loved your mother deeply before her passing…"

Just then Tormund returns, storming into the grove and looking around with bulging eyes. "I couldn't find her," He says in a deep, gravelly voice, facing Howland Reed. "But that doesn't mean she's gone."

 _"Enough!"_ Meera shouts, standing between her father and the Wildling with her spear in hand. "I will not stand by and allow you to make any more mad accusations! My father is an honest man! If he says he released her then he has!"

Several Crannogmen surround Tormund, their spears pointing in his direction. The Hound remains rooted to his spot, determined to stay out of anything the big, dumb Wildling decided to do. _As long as nobody tries stabbing the Stark boy, I see no reason to care about this._ The Hound continues to watch just for amusement, and is amazed when Tormund sheathes his sword…

"Fine." The Wildling grunts. "I'll be watching you, Reed."

"This is completely unnecessary." Meera shakes her head. "Brienne is probably back at Winterfell by now. We just missed her in all this snow. Father… Jon Snow has invited you to meet with him in Winterfell. He charged us to tell you before we left. He wants to formerly arrange an alliance with our people."

Howland Reed could not hide the hatred in his eyes from The Hound as soon as Jon Snow's name was mentioned, nor did he seem surprised by this news. "I expected this sooner or later." he admits, "If the King of the North demands my audience, then he shall have it…" Howland turns and looks at his men, who are gaping at him. "For the first time in over a hundred years, the Crannogmen will leave the marshes… We make way for Winterfell at once."

"What about us?" Meera asks.

"You must stay here with Bran. He is safest here for now, and he still has much to learn from the weirwood." Howland says dismissively, looking to The Hound. "Will you stay here and protect my child while I'm away, Ser?"

"I'm no Knight." The Hound retorts, "But yes, I'll stay. I swore an oath to protect the Stark boy. Might as well protect the girl while I'm at it."

"I'm going with you." Tormund announces, "My people are waiting for me. If Brienne is there, then I must find her; and if she isn't." He gets real close to Howland then, almost right in his face. "You better hope she is."

Howland just leers up at the large, intimidating, red-haired force of nature and says, "It's settled then."


	88. Bran IX

Bran

When Bran arrives at Harrenhal in the middle of a bright summer day, he finds himself surrounded by thousands of people being shepherded through the gates of the massive, black castle, by soldiers bearing the sigil of a three-headed Dragon. Harrenhal's uniquely designed, jagged towers spike up into the sky, casting a huge, ominous shadow over the crowd; Harrenhal is a massive fortress constructed by the Targaryens long ago. In present time, it was a shadow of its formal self, having been melted down by dragon fire in a war Bran knew little about. Standing in its shadow, Bran is reminded of The Wall's presence, and how it fills him with a strange sense of purpose just to lay eyes on it. Whatever Bran needs to find is waiting for him here.

Every Lord from every House across Westeros gathered here for this tournament. Never in his life had Bran seen so many people in one place. It's crowded everywhere he goes. Camps were drawn out up and down the hillside surrounding Harrenhal's walls, sigils on flags flapping over every encampment. The tourney would last the whole day, with a grand feast inside its black hall for the highest-born Houses while the lower were to party outside. Jesters dance and juggle for an army of cheering children. An audience of adults are watching a flame swallower spit gusts of fire up into the sky. Bran passes through them all like a ghost, drifting across the muddy ground in search of a particular sigil. When the grey wolf over a white field appears over one of the largest encampments, Bran beams so hard his face hurts.

Rickard Stark leads his four children, showing them all the different sights to behold. Brandon, the eldest, is tall and stern with a neat, brown beard and long, handsome hair. Beside him is Bran's father, Eddard Stark. He's a year younger than when Bran had seen him at the tower of Joy, but there's no mistaking his grim expression. Benjen is trailing behind them, the youngest of them the Starks, he's absolutely enthralled by the spectacles; especially the fire-breather, whom he stops to point and shout at with excitement.

Lyanna is the only one who appears bored by the whole thing. She trails behind her family, her hands folded behind her lower back, her eyes scanning the sea of people without interest, searching for something that might catch it. Her eyes pass straight through Bran, who feels a strange, spine-tingling sensation as they do. She doesn't see him, even though he is standing five feet from her, following along behind them and listening.

"The welcoming feast will begin soon, we must hurry." Lord Rickard Stark says to them in a deep, commanding voice the brokers no argument. "Lyanna, you'll be able to meet your betrothed soon enough. Wipe that scowl off your face, especially when we are in the presence of our King, understand?"

"Yes, father." Lyanna says flatly, rolling her eyes.

"Why does Lyanna have to marry?" Benjen asks curiously.

Before Rickard can answer, Lyanna beats him to it with, "Because I'm a girl and girls don't get to make decisions about who or when they want to marry."

"That's enough of that." Rickard snaps, stopping dead in his tracks and glaring down at his daughter with worry. "Lyanna, we spoke of this. I know you don't approve but while we are here it is important you—"

" _I know, I know_ , father—no outbursts. I know." Lyanna rolls her eyes again, placing her hands on her hips.

"King Aerys will not tolerate your attitude; not here, not ever." Rickard warns her.

"Why should he care?" Lyanna asks. "It's not like I'm marrying _his_ son!"

Rickard kneels down, looking around to make sure no one around them was listening. "Lyanna, the Baratheons are a great, proud, and powerful house. They are also one of our oldest allies. Robert Baratheon is a good man, you'll see."

"I don't care." Lyanna says, "I don't want to marry anyone. I want to be—"

" _It's out of the question_!" Rickard snaps, harsher this time, "I will hear no more of your wild fantasies of becoming a knight, understand? In Winterfell, you can dream all you like, but when we're in the presence of our King, you must keep it to yourself!" He stands up, crossing his arms as Lyanna frowns down at her feet. "Come now, let us return to our camp until the feast."

As Lyanna began to trail behind again, Eddard lags behind with her, playfully hitting her in the shoulder. She smirks and punches him back. "Don't worry," Ned says, "Father is just stressed out."

"Ned, you know Robert. What's he like?" Lyanna asks.

Ned gives a strained grin, "He's… well, he's a good man, like father said. He's been my friend for ages. I love the man with all my heart…"

"But?" Lyanna sighs.

"He's a fool. You'll hate him at first." Ned admits, chuckling. "But so did I when we first met. It wasn't until after I got to know him that I discovered his charm. You'll have a hard time with him, no doubt, but eventually, I do believe you can grow to love him."

"Then perhaps I should marry him _after_ I've grown to love him instead of _before_." Lyanna grumbles. "Father doesn't care if I _grow to love him_ or not. All he cares about is politics and how our marriage would join our houses. Women are never given a choice, Ned. Don't you see how fucked up that is?"

" _Language,_ Lyanna." Ned warns, eyeing their father up ahead who luckily has his attention on little Benjen, who's trying to trip a juggling performer. Ned says, "You know that's not true. Father would never do this unless he was absolutely certain it was best for you."

"What about you?" She asks, "Do you think this is what's best for me?"

Ned gives her a side-long glance before answering, "I think you would make a better knight than half the men jousting today. You fight even better than I do, and without proper training. But you're still a woman, Lyanna…"

" _Exactly,"_ Lyanna says, "If I'd been born a man I wouldn't have to put up with marriage arrangements and having children."

"But that is the world we live in." Ned reminds her.

"Well the world we live in is horse shit." Lyanna says.

As Bran follows them, he watches Lyanna quietly slip away into the shadows of some tents unnoticed. Startled by this, Bran follows her, his heart racing. His aunt is taking off down a row of tents in the grass—Bran has to run to keep up with her, something he's not used to doing anymore. He chases her out into a clearing of trees near an isolated, babbling river, far away from the rest of the camps. Lyanna slows down as she comes upon the water's edge and peers down into it. Bran walks right up to her, wondering what she's doing… Suddenly she bends over and picks up a large stick from the ground and swings it in anger, splashing the water and kicking up rocks. Bran backs away from her, even though the stick would cause no harm to him and he couldn't get wet, watching her unleash her fury upon the river in awe.

Lyanna stops when a shout in the distance catches her attention. It sounds like a cry of pain. With the stick in her clutches, Lyanna races off in the direction of the scream and Bran is forced to run again after her, amazed that he could get tired still even as an apparition. They come upon another clearing, this one at the bottom of a hill. A single oak tree pokes up from the top, and underneath it are four boys. One of them is on the ground, crying profusely while the three others, who appear younger than the crying boy, kick at him and laugh. _"Stupid frog-eater!"_ one boy shouts, _"Where do you get off coming here, Aye?!"_

"P-P-Please!" whimpers the boy on the ground as another kick lands squarely in his chest.

" _HEY!"_ Lyanna thunders, catching their attention. The three boys turn around. All of them look to be Bran's age. Each of them cast Lyanna an ugly glare.

"Piss off!" The tallest one shouts at her. "We're busy here."

" _Leave him alone!"_ Lyanna commands, unafraid as she strides toward them.

"What are you going to do about it, whore?" Asks the chubbiest of the boys, making the other two laugh. The boy on the ground looks up at Lyanna, tears streaming down his bruised face. Bran thinks the boy looks familiar, but can't place it.

"Oh look, she's got a stick." mocks the third bully, his face covered in acne. "The bitch thinks she's tough!"

Lyanna doesn't stop or hesitate. She walks straight up to them and, without warning, bludgeons the stick over the face of the tallest bully. Blood sprays across the chubbier boy's stomach from the blow, and before he can react, Lyanna swings the stick at him next, cracking his ear open and sending him sprawling into the third boy. All three go down in a heap beside their victim in shock. Lyanna stands over them, her hair blowing in the wind as she growls, "Get out of here before I kill the lot of you!"

" _She's mad!"_ sobs the chubby one, crawling to his feet. _"You'll pay for that, whore!"_

Lyanna whacks him again with the stick over his ass as he tries to get up. The three boys flee as fast as their legs can carry them, crying for help. Lyanna watches them go before dropping the stick and reaching down to help the bloody and beaten boy up. He sniffs as he leans against the tree clutching his sides. "Let me look." She says, lifting up his tunic to reveal a huge, black bruise across his abdomen and ribs. He winces as she lowers the tunic back down, her rage dissolving into sympathy. "Are you alright?"

"Y-Yes. Thank you." the boy stutters nervously, his face red.

"What's your name?"

"H-Howland R-Reed."

"I'm Lyanna." She smiles, "Lyanna Stark. Why were those boys hurting you?"

"I'm… I'm a Crannogman. We're not… very popular people…" Howland mutters sadly.

Lyanna grins with excitement. "I've never met a Crannogman before! You're my father's Bannermen! That makes us friends, doesn't it?!"

"I… I don't have friends…"

" _Nonsense!"_ Lyanna says, "Come with me. I'll help you back to my tent and clean your wounds. You can meet my _brothers!_ "

"Oh, t-thank you, b-but I…" Howland begins but Lyanna won't hear a word of it. She takes Howland by his hand and leads him back to her camp. Bran follows in amazement. Howland looks like a completely different person without Greyscale. He's almost identical to when Bran had seen him at the Tower of Joy, only he doesn't have a beard and his hair is shorter this time. _Howland told me to find him and to follow him until I get the answers I'm looking for_ , Bran remembers.

He follows them all the way back to the Stark camp where Ned, Benjen, and Brandon are all inside their tent getting prepared for the feast. When Lyanna enters with Howland, all three brothers give them bewildered stares. _"Ned, get some bandages and ice, won't you?"_ Lyanna snaps as she helps Howland over to a bed and lays him down.

"Lyanna, who is this? What's going on?" Her eldest brother, Brandon asks with a frown while Ned rushes to grab the ointment and alcohol, and join Lyanna by her side.

"This is Howland Reed." Lyanna says, lifting Howland's arms up to help take off his tunic. "I found him being beaten up by some idiots in the woods. He's our father's Bannermen, so don't give me that look, Brandon."

"I-I don't want to cause any trouble." Howland whimpers, his eyes huge with fright.

"Don't worry." Ned smiles, "Any friend of Lyanna's is a friend of ours. I'm Eddard, but you can call me Ned."

Brandon grunts, irritated, "Lyanna… what did you do to them?"

"Nothing they won't forget any time soon." Lyanna answers with a sly grin.

Brandon groans, " _Gods…_ Lyanna, if father hears of this…"

"Then we just need to make sure he _doesn't_ hear of this." Lyanna glares over her shoulder at him, then at Ned and Benjen.

"Do you even know who the boys were?" Ned asks her.

"Does it matter? They were beating him up for no good reason. _I couldn't just stand there and ignore it!"_

They help bandage up Howland's injuries and Lyanna keeps a block of ice against the bruise on his ribs. Bran notices that Howland is watching Lyanna with a transfixed stare, as though he's never seen a girl before in his life, let alone one that could show him kindness. Ned and Benjen begin talking Howland's ear off, asking him all kinds of questions. Eventually Howland loosens up and stops stuttering; he even laughs when Benjen starts to perform one of his tricks, juggling three tourney swords for a good minute before slipping up, causing all three to come crashing down on his head. Even Bran laughs along with them, though none but him can hear it. He wants to sit here forever and just enjoy his family's company, seeing his father's smile and hearing Lyanna's laughter brings tears to Bran's eyes, for he knows this isn't _actually_ happening— _this has already happened. The past is written and the ink is dry…_ Still, he can't help it. He wants to stay here with them and never leave this tent…

"The feast starts soon." Ned says after what feels like an hour, "We should be going. It was a pleasure to meet you, Howland."

"Thank you, guys, for everything." Howland says, blinking furiously as he gets up. Lyanna keeps her arm around him to help him balance and he blushes at her when she doesn't let go.

"You should come with us." she says to him.

"What? No—I'm not highborn enough…"

"Nonsense." Lyanna glares at her brothers. "We can disguise him as our young lord cousin. Isn't that right, guys?"

Brandon and Ned both seem unsure about this but Lyanna eventually convinces them. Bran is constantly impressed with her persistence. _She sure knows how to get what she wants._ Howland's clearly baffled as Ned gives him a Stark wolf's pelt to drape over his shoulders as well as some of his own spare clothing. When Howland's dressed up, he actually blends in quite well with the rest, in Bran's opinion. Together they make their way out of the tent and up into Harrenhal's courtyard.

As they stand in line being shepherded through the giant, black doors, Bran hears Brandon call out to someone. He sees him rushing over to a pair of girls led by an old man Bran recognized to be his grandfather, Hoster Tully. Bran's amazed to see his mother smile as Brandon sweeps up to her and plants a firm kiss upon her hand. _She's beautiful_. Bran remembers how originally Brandon was engaged to Catelyn Tully, not Ned… Soon that would all change, but for now, the two of them are grinning like children at each other while Ned strolls past without giving Catelyn notice. Beside them is Bran's aunt, Lysa… and someone else who Bran doesn't even detect at first—for he's so small he hides in Lysa's shadow. Bran thought he looks vaguely familiar, but couldn't place him. The small lad is watching Brandon and Catelyn with a scowl while Lysa gushes endlessly into his ear, their arms locked together. Edmure Tully appears beside the boy, and makes a jest that Bran can't hear over the bustling crowd. Bran turns and quickly catches back up with Lyanna, Howland, Ned and Benjen as they enter the Black Hall.

The Highborn Lords from all across Westeros are seated at the high table. Bran counts at least fifty in all. He spots Lord Rickard Stark talking animatedly with the Prince of Dorne, Oberyn Martell. Lord Mace Tyrell is singing in a deep, booming voice for Lords Yohn Royce and Lady Ashara Dayne, both of whom are clapping along with merriment and drinking from their cups. The only man at the table who is beside himself in silence is the King himself; Aerys Targaryen scans the Black Hall with narrowed eyes and a wrinkled grimace, his skeletal fingers lifting a golden goblet of wine to his lips every five seconds. _The Mad King… He sure looks unhappy…_ Next to him, the Hand of the King Tywin Lannister sits like a proud lion watching the feast with little more interest than his King.

Bran finds a seat beside Howland Reed, who goes unnoticed. They are at one of the long tables in the center of the hall. Howland quietly prods his food, listening to Lyanna joke around with her brothers across from them. Brandon joins them with Catelyn, Lysa, Edmure, and the other boy, who takes a seat directly across from Howland and Bran, still glaring at the eldest Stark boy. Suddenly Bran knows who he must be, recalling the stories about how Petyr Baelish was famously in love with his mother and even dueled Brandon over her… and lost. _I wonder if that's happened already. He looks just as unhappy as the Mad King right now._

At the other end of the table, Bran hears a commotion and witnesses a giant of a man lifting a tankard of ale and announcing himself the winner of their little contest before gulping down the entire cup, spilling red alcohol through his bushy beard. Robert Baratheon burps then barks with laughter, slamming his cup back down and demanding more. Bran hears Lyanna sniff with disgust. Ned notices this as well, and whispers something in her ear that turns her disgust into delight, forcing a giggle out of her. The hall is so loud it's hard to hear any of them. Robert takes notice of Lyanna and Ned and comes rushing over to greet them. He bows for Lyanna, but she ignores him, eating her kidney pie with abrupt interest. When Robert tries again to catch her attention by asking her a teasing question that Bran can't hear, Lyanna turns to Howland and strikes up a conversation with him, pretending Robert isn't even there. Howland looks terrified but Robert just busts with laughter and shouts, _"THE THRILL OF THE HUNT! HAHAHA! NED, I LOVE HER ALREADY!"_

Bran glances up at the high table and notices the Mad King is watching them, particularly Robert, who continues to make a loud, blustering fool of himself, challenging Ned to a drinking contest. Ned denies him, pointing out Robert had already won earlier, and declares him _the king of wine_. Robert claps Ned on the back, booming with endless mirth.

Bran looks down at the table and tries to pick up a piece of bread, but his fingers pass through it. _Worth a shot._ A young man and woman approach their table. Both of them have golden hair and their clothes look far more expensive and lavish than that of the Starks. The girl has an arrogant smirk on her face, as does her twin brother. The Lannisters and the Starks glare at each other as they pass… and behind them, Bran sees the third Lannister waddling in their wake—nearly invisible in the shadow of his brother. Bran had met Tyrion once when he'd provided him a saddle. Ever since, Bran is fond of the small man. Now however, he's just a boy, hardly older than Ned. His hair is long and messy, hiding half his face under his bangs. Bran watches as Tyrion sneaks a goblet of wine while his sister isn't looking before they head off to sit at the head of the room.

At once, all the laughter and joy in the room begins to quiet down. Even Robert shuts up and takes a seat. Bran is confused at first, and notices everyone looking up to the front of the room where a man is slowly making his way to a stool. Hair as white as snow flows down his back, hiding his face from sight at first. A golden harp with silver strings is clutched in his hands. As the man takes a seat, he props the harp up against his knees; his deep, purple gaze never leaving the instrument—as though he's entirely unconcerned by the attention he's garnering. Bran's mouth drops and he finds himself striding closer to the man… _He looks just like Jon._

Rhaegar Targaryen begins to play a hauntingly beautiful song, his nimble fingers gliding along the harp's silvery strings with fluid grace, and when the young Targaryen parts his lips to sing, it captures the entire room in a state of awe.

" _All is known._

 _Proud and blind,_

 _No time to be kind,_

 _Obey your Lord,_

 _Loyal until your reward..._

 _All is lost._

 _A babe born of love,_

 _A crown born of lust._

 _All are lost,_

 _In the Song of Ice and Fire._

 _A Dragon soars over the northern wall,_

 _Bound by magic, it stands forever tall._

 _The Watchers wait through the night for their call,_

 _While the Winds of Winter drown us all._

 _All is known. All is known._

 _The Wolf howls to the sky,_

 _Silenced by the Lion's Claws,_

 _The Stag tries to fly,_

 _While the Dragon sits on his throne._

 _All is lost…_

 _A King born in lies._

 _A Queen born in blood._

 _A Beast born in spite._

 _The Dragon's Three Heads,_

 _Must ride into the Night._

 _Or all is lost,_

 _In the Song of Ice… and Fire…"_

Pregnant silence follows the end of the song. Rhaegar stands up and bows to the room, greeted with a huge round of applause. Even Robert Baratheon is booming with joy, shouting: _"WHAT A BEAUTIFUL MELODY! MORE, I SAY! LET US HEAR ANOTHER!"_ though Rhaegar doesn't even look at him in response. Bran observes many women in the room crying, even Lyanna, to his shock. Benjen laughs and points at her, so Lyanna upends her cup of wine over his head. _Why did he play such a somber song in the middle of a feast like this? I've never heard it before, he must've wrote it himself._ With the rise of all the commotion, Bran can still hear its melancholy melody in the back of his mind, especially the way he ended it… almost as if he was trying to warn them… Bran follows Rhaegar, leaving his family for the moment, and watches as he takes a seat beside the rest of his Targaryen family at the high table, setting his harp down beside his feet before pouring himself a goblet of wine.

Bran notices right away that Rhaegar and his father, The Mad King, do not get along. While all the other high lords, especially Mace Tyrell, gave Rhaegar praise, Aerys didn't even cast his son so much as a look of acknowledgment.

Bran returns to his table in time to hear an argument breaking out. Brandon had approached Petyr Baelish and is telling him he didn't belong here, only highborn are allowed. Edmure comes to Petyr's rescue and says their father had allowed it, for Petyr is like family to them. Petyr Baelish smirks up at Brandon and says, "I'm hardly the only lowborn in this hall, Stark." then glances at Howland Reed in his disguise. "I don't believe we've met." He reaches out and Howland shakes his hand tentatively. "What's your name?"

"He's our cousin." Lyanna says sharply.

" _Of course,_ he is." Petyr's tone hints that he doesn't believe it. For such a small man, Petyr carries himself with a lot of confidence. Both Jon and Sansa had warned him not to trust a man like this, but again, Bran can't help but wonder why. There is nothing special or intimidating about him as far as he can see. Petyr turns to Edmure and began discussing the jousts, making bets on who would win the day's tilts. Edmure put money on Brandon Stark while Petyr bets on Rhaegar.

Bran notices Lyanna is glaring across the hall at another table. _"It's them."_ she whispers to Howland, who looks over and grimaces with fear. "The ones who were beating you up—they're squires for those knights over there." Sure enough, all three of the boys who had kicked at Howland were sitting beside Knights. One of them notices Lyanna staring and whispers something to another boy. Howland quickly ducks his head behind his hands, whispering how he never should have come here. Lyanna however, just glares at the boys, a fire blazing in her eyes.

"Howland, you should fight." Lyanna says, "In the tourney. Ned and I could find some armor and a horse for you—it can't be too hard."

" _What?!_ N-No way." Howland shakes his head, trembling on his seat. "I-I can't fight a knight."

"Why not?" Lyanna asks, "Those boys are just squires! If you defeat their Knights in the joust you can defend your honor. Those idiots won't even see it coming!"

"I'm just a lowborn Crannogman, though. I-I can't enter a joust! I've never even been in a fight…"

Suddenly the Black Hall melts away and everyone in it vanishes. Bran is transported into a crowd of people sitting in the stands of the arena, looking out over the lines while the knights fighting that day are announced. He's sitting next to Howland Reed still, and on his other side is Eddard. Behind them, high up in the stands, is the King and his royal family, all except Rhaegar, who is down in the lists riding on a white stallion and wearing armor encrusted with emeralds and rubies. Of all the knights, Rhaegar is the most gallant and impressive of them all, and when his horse struts down the length of the dirt strip, everyone cheers him on and screams his name. Bran hears Benjen ask his father: "Where's Lyanna?" Bran scans the crowds but sure enough she's nowhere to be found. _That's odd… Where did she go?_

As the jousts begin, Bran keeps his eyes on Rhaegar, who's leaning against the railing waiting for his joust. Whenever another knight came up to talk to him, Rhaegar would give a curt response, focusing his attention of the fights. _He reminds me so much of Jon it's scary. He's definitely his father. When he wins the tourney, he's supposed to give Lyanna the crown of blue winter roses. That's not until tonight—so something must happen today that makes Rhaegar take an interest in her… but what?_

The three squires who bullied Howland Reed are helping their knights get ready for their first jousts that day… Bran recognizes Houses Haigh, Blount, and Frey's sigils belonging to each of them. Howland ducks down again when one of the squires looks up into the crowd. _Howland is such a craven. Meera would hate to see her father this way._ As the Knight from House Haigh prepares to joust—a new, unknown knight comes charging into the stadium. He is short in stature and wearing mismatched pieces of armor that appear to be from different sets, some bigger and looser than others. On his shield is a white weirwood tree with a red, laughing face instead of its usual crying face, recently painted. In his other hand is a jousting lance. He points it across the lists at the knight from House Haigh, and in a deep, booming voice shouts: _"I CHALLENGE ALL THREE OF YOU TO ONE-ON-ONE COMBAT, IN HONOR OF THE CRANNOGMEN YOUR SQUIRES SHAMED TODAY!"_

There are gasps from the crowd. Ned and Howland are both gaping because, like Bran, they know immediately who this mystery knight is. There are outcries from all throughout the stadium, as well as several of the knights below who were supposed to go up against them. The mystery knight gallops in a circle around the three challenged knights, who all look unsure of what to do. They look up to the King, who has a disturbed expression on his face—as though someone had forced him to swallow a bigger bite of food than he could manage. The Mad King blusters with rage, _"Reveal yourself at once!"_

" _I am the Knight of the Laughing Tree!"_ The mystery knight roars without fear, "Face me, you _cravens_!"

The Knight from House Haigh grunts, pulling down his helmet with impatience. Suddenly he's charging toward him, his lance at the ready. The knight of the laughing tree rears around and races down the lines, mirroring him. Bran can hardly believe what he's seeing. His father had never told him about this, not once. _It has to be her, but why is she doing this? Just for Howland?_ Bran sees Howland is up on his feet, his eyes wide with fear and exhilaration. The two knights clash and one goes down in a heap. The Mystery knight rides on victorious, and as he does, he points his lance at the knight from House Blount like a dare.

They ride despite the Mad King's screaming. Bran looks up and sees Aerys Targaryen is on his feet and commanding the newest of his Kingsguard, Jaime Lannister, to stop this madness at once—but Jaime is too invested in the fight to even hear the King's command; as is everyone in the stadium. All eyes are watching as the Knight of the Laughing Tree runs his lance through the shield of his enemy and the knight from House Blount falls onto his face—his horse however keeps running and ends up dragging the man all the way down the lists, screaming his head off much to the audience's enjoyment.

When the last of the mystery knight's challengers charges down the runway, the Mad King's protests are drowned under the cacophony of noise that erupts from everyone. The knight from House Frey is defeated in one fell strike of the lance. The Mystery Knight circles around the arena, shoving his weapon up high in triumph as he declares himself the victor. He then rides past the three squires, all of whom are stumbling to try and help their knights. The Mystery Knight points his lance down at the chubby one's face and he freezes in fear. He says something to them that Bran can't hear over the cheering crowd. Bran watches as the knight of the laughing tree rides off with haste, out of the stadium—and the Mad King explodes: _"RHAEGAR! FIND HIM AT ONCE! BRING HIM TO ME!"_

Rhaegar Targaryen doesn't reply to his father's order. He does, however, spur his white stallion into action and chases off after the mystery knight. Bran gets up in a hurry—and so does Howland. Both of them climb down out of the crowd and follow after the hoof prints in the dirt. _It'll take forever to catch up to—_

— _them._ Bran blinks and suddenly he's standing in the woods beside the river where Lyanna had gone earlier. Howland Reed is crouched behind a tree, watching something across the running water with interest. Bran follows his gaze, and witnesses Rhaegar and Lyanna facing each other with swords drawn.

"Back off, _Dragon boy_." Lyanna warns him. On the ground behind her is the knight of the laughing tree's battered shield and mismatched armor. Rhaegar approaches her cautiously… then slips his sword back into his sheath.

"I'm not here to bring you back to my father." He tells her softly.

"Then why have you come?"

"To satisfy a curiosity." Rhaegar smiles warmly at her and Lyanna softens, lowering her blade. "You stunned me in there. I've never seen a rider take out three in the row without missing once. Those knights are experienced jousters, yet they were taken down… by a woman."

Lyanna laughs. "There it is. You think a woman like me must've cheated, is that it?"

"On the contrary," Rhaegar takes a seat on a rock and crosses his legs. "I'd like to know more about you."

Lyanna cocks her eyebrow. "Not going to scold a little lady like me for playing with the boys?"

"You've proven yourself a better fighter than half of the men in that stadium. You won't hear such criticisms from me."

Lyanna paces back and forth, watching Rhaegar suspiciously. Finally, she says, "I'll admit, you're not too bad yourself."

"Thank you."

"It's too bad we'll never know which of us is better." Lyanna smirks.

Rhaegar smirks as well. "Not in a joust, no… but hand-to-hand combat…?"

"I was just thinking the same." Lyanna suddenly spins around, aiming a kick at Rhaegar's head. The Targaryen deftly dodges, springing off the rock and swinging a punch at her. Lyanna catches the punch in the palm of her hand, showing off her strength—but Rhaegar expects this and goes in for a tackle—knocking her into the grass and pinning her there. _He's got her!_ Bran thinks, but then Lyanna sends one of her knees up into Rhaegar's stomach and with both of their hands interlocked, pushes him off of her and rolls over him, gaining the upper-hand. They remain like that, face to face, for quite some time, grunting and pushing at each other—neither giving in…

Then both let go and fall away from each other, laughing with exhaustion. Bran comes out of hiding and joins them, but not Howland. He remains hidden, spying on them from behind his tree… Bran pays him no attention, instead listening to Rhaegar and Lyanna complement each other's strength.

"You're going to be late for your match, aren't you?" Lyanna asks him, helping him back up to his feet.

"Aye, but I'm having more fun here with you." Rhaegar says and Lyanna blushes, looking down at her feet.

"You're not going to tell my father what I did, will you?"

"I wouldn't dream of it, my lady."

"Then I suppose I owe you a debt."

Rhaegar shakes his head. "Absolutely not. I'm not like my father. People don't owe me anything."

Lyanna beams up at him and he smiles back. _Is this when they fell in love? It must be… After this, Rhaegar wins the tourney and gives her the crown of winter roses…_ Bran follows them as they begin to head back to Harrenhal. He notices Howland slinking in the shadows behind them, but neither Rhaegar nor Lyanna do.

"Your wife, she's beautiful." Lyanna says to him.

"Elia is beyond beauty. She means everything to me." Rhaegar says. "You are betrothed yourself, are you not?"

"Aye." Lyanna pouts.

Rhaegar notices. "Mine was an arranged marriage as well." He tells her, looking on ahead. "At first, it was… awkward. It took time before we could truly come to love one another…"

"Elia is one thing; Robert Baratheon is another." Lyanna says, making him laugh.

"I've always respected Robert. He's a good man. One of the best fighters in The Seven Kingdoms. I certainly wouldn't want to face him one-on-one. He'd knock my head in."

"He's a belligerent, arrogant, alcoholic." Lyanna frowns.

"That too." Rhaegar grins. "But most men are, I'm afraid."

"Not you."

"You hardly know me." Rhaegar chuckles. "I may not be belligerent, but you'd be hard-pressed to find a Targaryen without arrogance. And I've been known to enjoy wine from time to time."

"I can't marry a fool like him." Lyanna kicks at some dirt as they walk.

"Is there someone else you fancy?" He asks.

Lyanna blushes. "There's one boy I met today… He's really cute. He's not like any man I've ever met. He doesn't even like to fight or defend himself. At first I thought it was just pathetic, but when you compare him to a man like Robert Baratheon…" Bran looks over his shoulder to see if Howland Reed is listening to this, but he's too well-hidden to find.

"Is it the Crannogmen whose honor you defended?" Rhaegar asks.

"You're smarter than you look, Dragon boy."

"I'll make sure to remember that." He laughs. "Well, I'm no expert on relationship advice… but let me ask you this: Do you believe in _fate_?"

"Not really." Lyanna shrugs. "Do you?"

"I do." Rhaegar nods, "This might sound self-indulgent, but have you heard about the circumstances of my birth?"

"Summerhall." Lyanna looks sadly up at him, "Yeah, I've heard the stories…"

"I was born the day most of my family died." Rhaegar says, "My great grandfather was attempting to hatch dragons… when something went wrong, and Summerhall caught fire as my mother gave birth to me. Most people say they don't remember the day they're born, but I still do… I still remember the flames as my mother named me… It's such a hazy memory, but when I think about it… I remember the feeling of the heat washing my face… the only reason I survived was because of the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, Ser Duncan the Tall, they called him. He saved my mother from the flames and carried her out just as the roof came collapsing down. He went back in to try and save the King, despite my mother's protests, and perished. I never knew the man, yet I owe my life to him… Ever since I learned this story, I became… obsessed with finding out what happened… You know what I discovered?"

"What?"

" _Nothing._ Not one clue." It's Rhaegar's turn to kick up dirt as they walk. "All my life I've been searching for an answer that doesn't exist… I've come to accept that it was fate. Whatever happened that day was meant to happen the way it did, and it doesn't matter what the answer is… because in the end, I've been given a life that could've been prevented and I'd have no say in the matter at all…"

"That's… kind of depressing, though… isn't it?" Lyanna shakes her head. "I can't _believe_ that way. If fate controls us then there's no meaning behind anything. Without choice, what is the point of living?"

Rhaegar doesn't answer her. He only stares, deep in thought, into her eyes… "Maybe you're right. But what do you do when control is taken away from you?"

"You fight." She says. "You fight until you can't fight anymore. That's what I'd do."

Rhaegar chuckles. "I wish I'd known you sooner."

"Why's that?"

"Robert is a lucky man." He tells her and she blushes so furiously Bran thought smoke might come out her ears. "Forgive me, I tend to speak without thinking."

"It's alright." She mutters, furtively glancing from him to the ground to him again as they continue along in silence… Bran follows, his cheeks hurting from smiling. _This is how they fell in love, it must be…_

But then…

"I still believe in fate. If fate has called for you and Robert to be together, then I wish you both the best future possible." Rhaegar says as they exit the forest, Harrenhal's towers making themselves known in the distance. "Fate brought Elia and I together and I wouldn't have it any other way. Give fate a chance, Lyanna Stark."

"If you say so." She sighs. "Thanks for the advice. I guess this is where we part ways?"

"For now," He turns and bows to her, kissing her hand. "Perhaps I can attend the wedding?"

"I'd like that." She grins. "You should write a song for the occasion."

"Nothing would delight me more."

Bran watches as the two part ways, Lyanna heading to the Stark camps while Rhaegar made way to the stadium, guiding his stallion. Panic settles in the pit of Bran's stomach. _No… They… That can't be it? That can't…_ Rhaegar hadn't shown any sign at all that he would give her the crown of winter roses… if anything, he'd done the opposite and supported her marriage with Robert… _This isn't right… This can't be how it happens… Did I screw something up?_ Bran follows Rhaegar, and watches him come to a stop to take a piss near some lofts of hay.

Bran doesn't understand. Rhaegar is going to win the tourney when he goes back inside… If he doesn't give Lyanna the crown… then Jon is never conceived… _the entire future could change!_ As this dawns on him, Rhaegar begins to buckle his pants back up… As he turns to head in, Bran shouts in desperation: " _WAIT!_ "

Rhaegar stops, wheeling around in alarm. Like his father once acted when Bran had called out to him, Rhaegar simply stands there, his eyes searching for the owner of the voice… _I know what I must do_ … This is why he'd come here… this is his purpose for being here… the answer to his question…

" _Rhaegar_!" Bran walks right up to him and grabs a hold of his hand. At first he's convinced it'll pass straight through like with the bread, instead he feels Rhaegar's flesh on his own, and Rhaegar's eyes land directly upon Bran.

The Targaryen screams, stumbling backward—forcing Bran to let him go as he unleashes his sword. "What—where— _where did you go?!_ Show yourself!" He shouts, spinning around wildly.

 _He saw me. Just for that second while I touched him, he could see me!_

" _Rhaegar, calm down!"_ He shouts loudly and Rhaegar seems to hear him.

" _Who's there!?"_

Bran reaches out and tentatively takes Rhaegar's hand in his own. The moment he does, Rhaegar locks eyes with Bran and raises his sword… but he doesn't swing.

"You can see me?" Bran asks.

Rhaegar gulps and lowers his sword slowly, his face sweating. "I… Yes, I can see you…"

"My name is Bran Stark." He says, "I'm… I'm from the future. I don't have much time. You have to listen to me, Rhaegar."

"What is this? Is this some sort of trick?" Rhaegar stammers, lowering his sword and glancing down at their interlocked fingers. "Why are you…?"

" _Shut up and listen!"_ Bran snaps, "You're going to win the tourney today. Understand? When you win, you're going to be given the right to hand the crown of blue winter roses to whichever woman in the audience you find to be the most beautiful."

"What? That's… how could you possibly—?"

"You have to give it to _Lyanna Stark!_ Understand me!? You have to give it to _Lyanna Stark_!" Bran shouts, "The two of you are going to have a _baby!_ You have to do this! _Understand me!?_ The world depends on it! When the White Walkers come, your son is going to be the one we need!"

"I-I don't understand…" Rhaegar stammers, letting Bran go. No doubt, Bran must've disappeared again, because suddenly Rhaegar is looking all around him in confusion. "I must be going mad…"

Bran grabs him again, this time getting right in his face. Rhaegar tries to push him off but his hands going straight through Bran like he's made of smoke. "You have to give Lyanna the winter-rose crown! You have to! Then you have to… you have to abduct her! Or convince her to go with you— _either way!_ _Have a baby with her! Understand me?! You have to do this! The future depends on this, Rhaegar!"_

Rhaegar just stares at him at a complete loss for words… When Bran releases the Prince, Rhaegar stumbles backward into his horse… then he calls out, _"Are you still there?"_

Bran doesn't answer… He waits until Rhaegar eventually goes back inside the stadium before following, his heart beating rapidly in his ears. _This is my purpose for coming here… The past is already written and the ink is dry. This is always the way it happens… it must be…_

 _If it's not, then I might've just screwed everything up like I did with Hodor and the Night King._

 _NO! The past is written and the ink is dry! That's what the Three-Eyed Raven told me. This is what always happens… Rhaegar… Please… don't let me down._


	89. Daenerys VI

Daenerys

It's the night before the battle and Daenerys Targaryen is sitting over the railing of _The Red Wind_ , watching Viserion and Rhaegal play with each other in the sky, the moon making them appear like great winged shadows. Drogon rests aboard the ship's deck beside her, a deep purr rumbling in his throat as she caresses his smooth snout.

Looming over Blackwater Bay while torchlights dance atop the walls, The Red Keep pierces the darkness, blanketed in a layer of snow. There's so many different spiraling towers, Dany could feel herself getting lost just imagining trying to explore the whole castle. Meanwhile, on the walls, the dancing torchlights grow in number, signaling that there are thousands of Lannister soldiers preparing for war, keeping watch over the bay for any signs of Dany's fleet invading ahead of time. _Tyrion was right._ _It looks from here as though Cersei has moved her entire army to the eastern walls as we planned._ _When morning comes, The Mad Queen will find a very unwelcome surprise at her western side._ The Dothraki, Martells, and Tyrells had departed south of where they are now near Storm's End so that Cersei wouldn't know. By now they were amassing for the assault…

Her stomach squirms nervously the more she thinks about it. Footsteps alert her and Drogon, approaching them from behind. Jorah Mormont appears from the shadows, smiling grimly at her. She returns the look and beckons for him to join her on the railing. Jorah climbs up onto the wood beside her and says, "I wish you would've let me come with you today."

"I know you do," she replies softly, "It wasn't necessary."

"And tomorrow, when we are at war…"

"I need you below the city stopping the wildfire, we already discussed this." Dany says, her tone implying it wasn't up for debate.

"What if I can't stop it? What if there's simply too much to get to? I'm taking a hundred men with me, but even if we all split up on our own and find as many barrels as we can, we still will never know if it's enough."

"Then you will search until you know it is." Dany tells him, "Why must you make this so difficult?"

"Because you need me at your side in battle! I cannot lose you!" Jorah cries, gingerly taking her hand in his and kissing it.

Dany smiles at him, touching his cheek. "You have always been _so_ protective of me. I truly appreciate everything you've done… Have faith in me. Have faith in my dragons and our soldiers. I will be up in the sky above it all. You have no need to fear."

"I have _every_ reason in the world to fear. If I lost you…and there was something I could've done to protect you, I'd never forgive myself, Daenerys."

Dany says, "If the wildfire goes off, it will kill thousands of innocent people, and I could never forgive myself if I let that happen… _Jorah_ …"

"Make Tyrion do it." Jorah says, "He knows the tunnels better than I do. He knows how to get rid of it too, he said so himself."

"Tyrion is my Hand and will be riding with me." Dany tells him, frowning.

Jorah clearly doesn't like this answer. "With all due respect, I should be your Hand, not the Dwarf."

"That _will_ be the last time I _ever_ hear you suggest such a thing." Daenerys tells him, losing all trace of warmth and glaring at Jorah coldly. " _Understand?_ "

"I understand." Jorah nods, the wrinkles in his forehead creasing as he glowers down into the sea, deep in thought. "I will do my best, Daenerys. That's all I can promise."

She cups his chiseled and grizzly face in her hand, leans in, and kisses him. When she breaks away, she whispers, "Will you watch the stars with me?"

"I must go soon, the men are waiting for me… but yes, I can stay for now." Jorah smiles. He wraps his warm, mutated arm around her and together they sit for a while, looking up into the dark distances of the night sky.


	90. Cersei VIII

Cersei

The pitcher of wine is empty. _So soon? I've just refilled it. Huh._ She lifts it and takes it to her pantry where three more giant pitchers of wine await her. She stumbles as she pours herself another goblet. Then she sways back to where she sat perched all night on her balcony over Blackwater Bay, and empties the wine down her throat. It burns like swallowing fire, but Cersei demands more, and pours herself what must be the thirtieth cup that day. _Will I be Queen?_ She remembers asking Maggy the Frog when she was a child. _Oh yes, you'll be Queen... Until there comes another, younger and more beautiful, to cast you down and take all you hold dear._

"I am the Queen." she mutters to herself, sipping at her wine. "I am the Queen… I am the Queen…" _That old hag didn't know what she was on about… "_ I am the Queen…" _But she was right about Joffrey…_ She drinks. _Myrcella…_ She pours. _Tommen…_ She drinks. _All three dead… Just as Maggy the Frog predicted._ She pours. "I am the Queen…" She drinks. "I am the—"

 _Knock! Knock! Knock!_

The trance broken, Cersei glares at the door from across her chamber. _Who could be knocking at this hour? Qyburn_? _Or is it The Mountain asking to take a privy break?_ The thought amuses her and she cracks a smirk, ignoring the continued knocking as she pours herself another cup. "Come in!" She calls.

The door opens and Qyburn enters. Cersei notices at once that he is alone. As usual, he is wearing his black robes with the Hand of the Queen badge pinned to his chest. His hair seems a little unkempt and less slicked back, however, but Cersei attributes it to stress. Qyburn smiles as he bows low. "Your Grace." He greets respectfully, his voice deeper than usual.

"Where is _The Mountain_?" Cersei asks, sipping at her goblet from her perch, noticing that her guard was not standing doing his duty like usual.

"I've sent him away for a moment to deal with some stragglers from The Rebellion. Apparently, there are those out there who still believe in The Iron Bull's will."

Cersei snorts. " _Iron Bull_. Who cares what some sick peasants believe in anymore? I want The Mountain guarding _me_ at _all times_ , Qyburn, we've been over this already. There is an army at my bloody gates with three dragons—Needless to say I have bigger concerns right now."

"My apologizes, Your Grace. He will be back soon enough, I promise you."

"Why are you here?" Cersei asks in a bored tone of voice. "I don't recall asking for your interruption."

"I just wished to inform you that all the preparations for tomorrow's battle are ready, Your Grace… and to see if you would like to discuss anything further?" Qyburn smiles at her and Cersei narrows her eyes back at him over her cup. _He already told me the preparations for the battle were ready earlier, didn't he?_

"Alright." Cersei sighs, deciding maybe talking to someone instead of herself would prove more enlightening. "Take a seat, Qyburn. Allow me to tell you a story."

"I, _erm_ , I'd prefer to stand, Your Grace." Qyburn stammers, "My hip has been acting up on me lately and it hurts to sit down."

Cersei waves her hand drunkenly, pouring herself another glass while Qyburn steps even closer to her, moving slowly, his eyes never leaving her. When she lifts her eyes at him he stops, rooted to the floor between the table and the golden chair she is fond of sitting in. _Tonight, however, my place is here on this balcony. I doubt I'll sleep unless the wine knocks me out._ She drinks. "Have I ever told you about Maggy the Frog?"

Qyburn tilts his head a little, smiling without blinking. "Can't say you have, Your Grace."

 _Have I?_ Cersei honestly can't recall. She looks down and her goblet is empty again. She pours. "Once when I was a little girl, I went to see a woods witch near Casterly Rock. She was notorious in the area for being able to tell you your future, at a price. I cut my finger open for her and she plunged it into her mouth… Have you ever heard of such a thing?"

"I don't believe I have, Your Grace." Qyburn says, taking another step toward her, his hands folded behind his back.

"It's so strange." Cersei remarks, drinking her wine and eyeing Qyburn. "She then went on to tell me I had three questions. Can you guess what I asked her first?"

"Did you ask if you would be the Queen?"

Cersei frowns and pours. "No, not at first. That was one of my questions, but the first one I asked was if I was to be married to _Prince Rhaegar Targaryen_. Instead, I was told I would marry not a Prince but a King. At the time, I thought she meant I would marry Rhaegar once he was crowned King, but that was when I was young and naïve."

"What was the third question?" Qyburn asks curiously, treading closer.

"If the King and I would have children." Cersei smiles reminiscently, "She was right about that as well. Three children, she predicted, with three golden burial shrouds to match their golden crown of hair. She predicted each of their deaths when I was a teenage girl…What am I to make of that?"

"What did she say when you asked if you would be Queen?"

 _That another, younger, and more beautiful, would come to cast me down and take all I hold dear…_ Cersei is about to drink, when she lifts her eyes to see that Qyburn is closer to her than she anticipates…

"Qyburn… May I ask _you_ something?"

"Yes, _Your Grace_?"

"Why is your _neck_ bleeding?"

Qyburn lifts up his hand and touches his neck. His fingertips come away red. Sure enough, a bloody stain is spreading through the collar of his robes. _Why does his hand look so… young?_ _Where are the wrinkles and veins?_ Cersei lowers her goblet as Qyburn's expression slackens to that of a blank, emotionless one she'd never seen on the old man before. "I'm not sure, Your Grace." He says flatly, "It's certainly unusual, isn't it?"

"Why are you really here?" Cersei asks, pressing her backside against the balcony's railing. Cersei's hands tighten painfully around her goblet of wine as Qyburn takes another step closer, only six or seven feet away now. Blood is still flowing from underneath a strange fold in his neck… as if he's wearing a mask. She realizes at the same time that Qyburn reveals what he's been hiding behind his back, that this isn't truly Qyburn at all; that whoever this imposter is, he has intent to harm her. He runs at her all of the sudden, wielding the skinniest blade she's ever seen with both hands, his voice transforming into that of a young girl's battle-cry.

The wine splashes Qyburn across the face as the golden goblet goes flying. Cersei dives to her left as the narrow blade lunges past her ear, barely managing to slice a small cut across her cheek. The battle-cry that doesn't match Qyburn's voice turns into a ferocious snarl as he wipes the wine out of his eyes. Panic seizes Cersei at first, but then she spots Widow's Wale resting on the table inside—Qyburn stands in her way, swinging again—yet the blade catches on the drapes to the window, allowing Cersei to throw herself into the old man shrieking madly. She claws at his face and his flesh unexpectedly slides underneath her grasp. The two of them fall to the floor beside one another, wrestling and kicking furiously. Cersei gasps as she manages to crawl away—the table miles away from her still. _"HELP ME!"_ Cersei moans, praying for The Mountain's return. Qyburn's hand fastens around her ankle, yanking her off balance. The floor rushes up to smack her chin, and Cersei tastes blood. Qyburn crawls animalistically over her, tugging at her gown, his face disheveled so that his eyes and mouth are slanting unnaturally.

Whether it's the horror of it all, or the alcohol surging through her bloodstream, Cersei doesn't know; but something spurs inside of her to fight—and so she fights with everything she has. Her legs kick at him in the gut and groin, her fingers lash out at him, breaking her nails against his forehead. Qyburn wraps his hands around her throat, squeezing the air out of her lungs—so Cersei leans into him and bites down as hard as she can on his ear. The man screams, high-pitched and child-like. More warm blood laps across her tongue, only this time it's not her own.

The stranger's knuckles collide with Cersei's face, and Cersei's world goes black as her head bounces off the floor. The second punch's impact is hardly felt, for the first one numbs her cheeks. She blinks, and the third punch rocks her head to the left, spraying blood across the carpet. She feels two of her teeth come loose and dance around her tongue. All of the fight left in her dies and Cersei resigns herself to her fate…

Except the fourth punch never comes down.

There's great commotion occurring over her head, yet it sounds so far away it's almost a dream… Someone is screaming, _"Let me go!"_ Her vision returns and Cersei sees a young man in golden armor wrestling Qyburn back. _Who?_ She subconsciously wonders, still floored from the beating to see clearly. Cersei lifts her arm up and wipes her mouth off before crawling into a sitting position… The young man has Qyburn in a headlock—only it isn't Qyburn anymore… Cersei had ripped his face off with her teeth… it's now lying on the floor beside her in a disturbing, bloody heap…

 _"I've got him, Your Grace!"_ shouts Dickon Tarly, his curly hair bouncing as he struggles to keep the imposter still.

"Dickon?" Cersei can't believe her luck. _Of all the people to save me…_

"Yes, Your Grace." he smirks, "I was told you wished to see me tonight. I came by but when I saw The Mountain was gone I feared you were as well—then I heard you scream for help!"

 _"GERROFF ME YOU CUNT!"_ thunders not a boy, but a young girl, in his arms, her face half painted red with blood from wearing Qyburn's face.

Cersei stands up slowly, breathing heavily, her head pounding with dull pain. She glares at the girl, studies her face… and realizes with a wide grin who it is. "My, my… _Arya Stark_." Cersei says with hardly suppressed laughter. "You've grown into an _interesting young lady_."


	91. Jon VII

Jon

 _There's little more than a thousand of us._ Most are women and children, yet it's the men who drag behind. Almost all who survived the Battle with the Boltons are still injured in some capacity or another; the journey would not be kind for them. Aside from the Free-Folk, the only remaining loyalists to Jon are Lord Asher Forrester and his small group of soldiers, Lady Glenmore and her family's archers, and Lady Lyanna Mormont and her three battle-hardened warriors. The She-Bear rides atop her black horse beside Jon Snow, even though Jon had insisted she stay in Winterfell. "I'll never be comrades with those _back-stabbing cravens!_ _Let alone sleep under the same roofs as them_!" Lady Mormont told him and the subject was dropped. Now she sits, pale-faced and weary-eyed; still, her determined expression is inspiring. Jon's just glad not _all_ had betrayed him… _Sansa has what she wants now. Maybe it is for the best. Perhaps I will see her again when she marches on King's Landing._

The first place he planned to visit was Greywater Watch in order to deal with Howland Reed. There was a chance, he thinks, that Bran had convinced him to join their side, and right now Jon desperately needs an army. Bran might still be there, or at least he should be. After that, it would be to King's Landing to meet with the Dragon Queen…

After several long, hard days of traveling through harsh blizzards and freezing winds, Jon and his band find themselves traversing over a frozen marshland. Moat Cailin, an abandoned and ruined fortress on top of a hill, looms in the fog up ahead… As their horses trudge along, the snow crunches and sinks them every step. Jon guesses the snows here are four feet deep in all, and their horses are beginning to cry in agony from the stress. Ghost never complains, though. He had gone beyond The Wall with Jon; these snowy terrains are normal for the Direwolf. "We'll make camp here for the night, inside the fortress. No one should be there now." Jon says to the rest of his people.

"Then who's that?" Lady Mormont asks, pointing her finger up at the castle.

Jon turns and sure enough, there are strangers approaching them. The fog seems to produce them out of thin air. Jon could've sworn there was nobody there a second ago. He counts about twenty in all… Their leader is the smallest in the group. A hunched over old man with a walking stick… Then Jon recognizes the red mane of hair and bushy beard that could only belong to Tormund Giantsbane and he cracks a smile. "It's Howland Reed." he tells his people, "They must be on their way to Winterfell."

"We don't know that." Lady Mormont says.

"Lady Mormont, with me. Ten others as well, ride with me out to greet him." Jon commands and he spurs his horse to trot faster.

Both Jon and Howland slowly make their way across the snowy marsh before coming to a halt, twenty feet apart. Howland's cracked and deformed face is an initial shock to behold, but Jon keeps a straight face and greets Howland from atop his horse with a respectful nod. " _The King of the North_." Howland grins up at him, "The last time I saw you, you were just a baby, Jon Snow."

"My father spoke often and kindly about you." Jon says, "However, it's come to my attention you've been holding my sister's Swornsword captive."

"We released her some time ago." Howland responds, "Your man, here—the wildling, I gave him free reign of Greywater Watch to look for her, out of good faith."

Jon eyes Tormund who only shakes his head. "She's not back yet?" he asks Jon, who shakes his head in return. The rage in the wildling's eyes is fearsome. He glares down at Howland, his fists balling up.

Jon says, "I had hoped we would cross paths. It's long overdue we meet, Lord Reed. I want us to work together. My brother and your daughter are in love, one day they might even be married." Jon smiles, "Where are they now?"

"Back in Greywater Watch where he's safe." Howland replies, his grin gone. He has a dead-pan look on his face now that frightens Jon, though he attributes it to the greyscale… Then Jon notices for the first time the Woman in Red, Lady Melisandre, striding through the snow and joining Howland Reed at his side… _What?_

"Do you know who that woman is, Lord Reed?" Jon asks.

"Yes." Howland replies back.

"She has committed crimes against the North that cannot go unpunished. I exiled her, and swore if I saw her in the North again I would kill her myself." Jon says, his hand around Longclaw's hilt. Melisandre's smiling up at him knowingly. Ghost growls at Jon's side…

"I'm afraid I cannot allow that." Howland Reed sighs.

Jon says, "She murdered an innocent child who had Greyscale much like your own, Lord Reed."

"We've all done things we're not proud of, have we not?" Howland asks, a little too pleasantly for Jon's liking. _Why is she with him? What's going on?_

"Lord Reed…" Jon says, "I am the King, hand her over to me or I will come and take her."

"King… yes, you are King… But then, what is a King without an army?" Howland asks him, revealing yellow teeth in his grin.

Then they appear—the Crannogmen. Jon realizes his mistake too late as the fog begins to take form to a host of men and women bearing three-pronged spears. There are hundreds of them at first, then there are thousands of them, as more and more take form all around them, surrounding Jon and every single Free-Folk and Northerner. _This was no accident. This is an ambush!_

Tormund realizes what's going on and draws his sword in one hand and his battle-axe in the other, releasing a booming roar as he charges directly for Howland Reed—The twenty Crannogmen who guard Lord Reed respond in earnest, thrusting their spears upward in defense, engulfing Tormund who is, to put it mildly, a whirlwind of death as he spins through the hoard of green-skinned barbarians, tearing off limbs and slicing off heads, laughing as he does it. There are numerous battle cries from the wildlings behind Jon and he hears everyone draw their blades and start running while Lady Mormont screams, _"DEFEND YOUR KING!"_ Jon Snow grimaces as he pulls out Longclaw, kicking at his horse's side to run as fast as it can through the snow—

That's when the spears rain down from the sky. Jon's horse is lucky and dodges the first wave, but when Jon looks over his shoulder, he witnesses his own men, women, horses, and children being thrown off their feet by three-pronged spears. Screams of agony mixed with the battle cries of the warriors who remain fill the air… Then Jon notices a new horror… It happens first to Lady Mormont. A three-pronged spear juts up from beneath the snow and rips through the belly of her horse, causing it to cry out and fall. Lady Mormont is sent flying onto her side… only she lands on another spear that comes out of the snow and pierces her through the neck. Then three more come shooting upward through her warrior's groins and out of their chests, stopping them in their tracks. _They were waiting for us underneath the snow!_ Jon's anger bubbles to the surface as more of his people are slaughtered in just seconds. Lord Asher goes down as two spears spike him through the chest, sending him flying off his horse. Lady Glenmore, who is trying to flee on foot, holding her pregnant belly, receives a spear through said belly from beneath the snows. Lord Hornwood tries to fight valiantly, but he and his men are pinned beneath another volley of spears... Jon turns to Howland Reed, who stands beside the Lady Melisandre watching Tormund fight.

 _"REED!"_ Jon thunders, his horse galloping gallantly over the snow as though it's not even there to slow him down. He raises his sword, preparing to strike the old man's head off with a single blow.

He doesn't notice the massive direwolf until it's too late.

Out of nowhere, a lumbering, grey beast flies out from the fog and tackles Jon's horse down. The once King of the North falls into the snow, buried several feet deep, his sword lying somewhere by his feet. _Why do I feel like I know this wolf?_ The Direwolf he recognizes rips the neck of his horse out before turning its sights upon Jon Snow. Jon notices that Howland Reed is no longer standing up. He too has fallen, his eyes white and rolled up into the back of his head… _He's controlling her. He's a warg!_ Jon grunts as he tries to reach for Longclaw— _but the direwolf pounces!_ Its jaws nearly reach his face before a blur of white fur collides with the beast and both direwolves are suddenly, rapidly fighting each other, snapping at each other's necks, kicking up snow, tearing off hair. Jon manages to pick up Longclaw, and rushes to his direwolf's aid—but the grey one Howland controls is bigger and gets the better of Ghost, digging her fangs into the white wolf's neck. Ghost's sharp howl of pain is unlike anything Jon has heard before.

Tears escape his eyes as Jon plunges his Valyrian Steel sword into the grey direwolf's side while she shreds at Ghost's throat… This one doesn't scream like Ghost, though. Instead it just looks up at Jon as it falls to the snow. There are tears in her eyes as well…

Howland Reed is conscious again, glaring with pure hatred at Jon. Meanwhile spears continue to soar overhead, striking down every last one of Jon's people before they can even defend themselves. Their agony and tormented cries mirror Jon's broken heart as he faces down Howland Reed and Melisandre, knowing full well this was it. It was over. _I've lost._ Only Tormund Giantsbane is still fighting somehow... There's three spears sticking out of his back, yet the red-headed wildling refuses to relent, cutting down every last Crannogmen who's brave enough to try and stop him. It's only when a spear comes soaring out of the sky, burying itself in his chest, that Tormund finally freezes, and both his sword and axe fall limply from his grasp. Tormund Giantsbane, Jon Snow's last friend, falls face first into the snow.

Jon begins to walk toward Howland Reed, limping from the fall he suffered, anger boiling over. _I'm going to kill him. It's the very least I can do for them!_ Lady Melisandre disrobes, revealing her naked body, a pale visage in the snowy landscape. Her belly is bulging with pregnancy that Jon hasn't noticed until now. _What's going on now?_ She smiles serenely at him, her eyes glistening with tears, before sitting down atop her robes in the snow and spreading her legs…

Jon is only a few feet away when the shadowy, black, ink-like demon crawls its way out of her. Melisandre heaves and moans as she gives birth to a monstrosity bearing the resemblance of a man. It slowly stands and faces him. Jon Snow readies Longclaw, his heart pounding. _Whatever you are, I don't care! Come at me!_

As though it reads his mind, the Shade responds by lunging for Jon, its claws outstretched, a high-pitched hiss escaping what resembles its mouth. Jon roars, slashing Longclaw at the thing with all his might—

The blade passes through the demon as though it's made of fire, and Jon Snow can only gasp as it plunges its dagger-like talons through his heart, putting an end to the pounding in his ears. The Shadow smiles wickedly at him before dispersing into nothingness…

 _No._ Jon looks down and sees blood rivering down his torso from the open wound. It's exactly the same place where Olly stabbed him once, only this time the pain felt different somehow. Jon collapses to his knees, Longclaw sinking into the snow beside him. He is too weak to lift it again. Melisandre crawls back to her feet with the help of Howland Reed, who wraps her robe around her once more. The two of them stare down at Jon with smiles.

"You should have killed me when you had the chance." The Red Woman says to him, out of breath still from labor. "You could have avoided all of this, Jon Snow… You could've listened to me, and kept me with you."

"Shut up." Jon mutters, digging his fist into the snow and coughing up blood. _I'm dying._ He knows because he's done this once already. _This time it looks like there's no way she'll bring me back again… I can't. Not again. I need to find… Daenerys… Damn the Gods!_ "I don't… understand… Reed, why?"

Howland Reed wipes tears out of his eyes as he says, "The Targaryens are like Greyscale. They infect and spread, cause destruction and death. Targaryens are a disease, and a disease must be eliminated."

 _But you were my father's friend? He trusted you!_ Jon wants to say, but instead he throws up blood and spittle, his head spinning. His lungs are losing air. He can't breathe anymore. Jon seizes up, sinking deeper and deeper into the snow. _You know nothing Jon Snow_ , whispers the teasing voice of Ygritte.

Then the darkness becomes absolute, and all reality fades into nothingness.


	92. The 999th Lord Commander II

The 999th Lord Commander

The Long Night stretches all the way across the sky, blanketing the lands in shadow. Edd's hair whips about his face constantly, even with his woolen hood pulled up over his head. The unwilling Lord Commander of the Night's Watch wishes the wind would stop just for a second, so that he might regain some feeling in his face. After spending what feels like a lifetime trapped atop The Wall, Dolorous Edd's entire body threatens to shut down. His hands are so numb he can't even stretch his fingers, the joints in his bones cold as ice. It's his stomach and bladder that brought him the most discomfort. There's nothing to eat or drink, and Edd often ponders whether it will be starvation or the cold that kills him first. Without anywhere to piss or shit, Edd is forced to do it out in the open. Pissing over The Wall's edge was easy enough (even though Edd could barely hold his cock in his frostbitten hands) but Dolorous Edd can't bring himself to shit over it. The thought of slipping in mid-shit and falling 700 feet to his death was even worse than freezing up here, and so he shat in a corner, away from where he and Harolt sit so they wouldn't have to suffer the stench. The two men dubbed it their shit corner, and refused to acknowledge each other whenever one manages to get up and make their way over to it.

They have no way of building a fire up here. The winds of winter had blown all torches out, and neither Edd nor Harolt had any flint or oil _. We'd have survived longer up here with fire to warm us. Guess there's no point in prolonging it anyway. We're both dead already._ Ever since the elevator snapped off and crashed down onto Castle Black, Dolorous Edd slowly came to accept his fate. Never again would he set feet upon solid ground. Never again would he enjoy a warm fire in the hearth. Never again would he know the taste of chicken or ale. When they first became trapped up here, both men walked as far as they could down each length of the parapets. An hour to the west led them to another giant fissure that had split off a huge portion of the walkway and sent it crashing down below. A few hours to their east led them to a similar missing section of the Wall that had broken off. There was no way to reach either the Shadow tower or Eastwatch by the Sea… So, in the end, both of them agreed to sit and wait over Castle Black. Dolorous Edd had no expectations of being rescued by the remaining Night's Watch below. It would take months to rebuild the elevator… Yet Dolorous Edd was the Lord Commander, so when Harolt had asked him if there was any hope of being rescued, Edd lied and told him, "Yes."

 _Death's coming for me._ It dawns on him, when his body stops being capable of shivering, that he would most likely freeze before starving, after-all… He lost track of how many days he spent up here. Once the Long Night had darkened the sky, the sun refused to show its face, so the days and nights felt one in the same before long. _How long has it been? A week? Two?_ Dolorous Edd didn't feel like counting. He didn't feel anything anymore. His mind is as numb as his body. The only comfort came when he slipped off into a dream for a few hours. Every time he fell asleep, he prayed to the Gods he didn't believe in that he wouldn't have to ever wake up again… But every time his eyes would open and he would be back in this frozen hell again, his prayers ignored.

Dolorous Edd hugs himself tightly, his hands glued to his sides, sitting in a shrunken, black heap next to Harolt. The young man had only been at The Wall for a year. He had committed rape in White Harbor, and was sentenced to The Wall for it. Harolt was a quiet man, much to Edd's gratitude. Both didn't speak much to each other, only when it was necessary. Edd, who was once full of wit and sarcasm, can hardly open his mouth without ice-cold pain seizing his jaw. Edd has a deep, unspoken fear that Harolt would eventually get hungry enough to try and eat him. Edd had only his sword to defend himself with, and so did Harolt. Edd recalled Alliser Thorne always going on about how, beyond The Wall, when trapped in the cold for so long, men would grow desperate in their hunger… Thorne himself had bragged about eating his comrades to survive. Edd would rather die than go that far… but Harolt was a rapist and someone Edd barely knows. Brother of the Watch or not, Edd keeps a wary eye on Harolt whenever he's awake…

As Harolt's getting up to slowly make his way to the shit corner, he stops and stares out over The Wall. "Oh _Gods_ ," he whispers, "Lord C-C-Commander! Look down b-b-below!"

"What is it this time?" Edd grumbles, though as he struggles to stand, he already knows the answer. His hands grip the ice as he peers down into the dark depths. The Long Night and the relentless blizzard makes the forest beyond The Wall impossible to see… Edd squints, letting his eyes adjust…

Then the 999th Lord Commander says, _"S-S-Start b-b-blowing that h-horn again, Harolt."_


	93. Benjen

Benjen

The white weirwood tree is where he'd last left Brandon Stark and Meera Reed before leaving them. Since then, Benjen had been waiting. He knew this day would come eventually, just as he knew what he must do when it did. So Benjen Stark rode to the weirwood tree first to drop down on his knees and pray. It was more out of habit than anything, as Benjen knew there were no Old Gods, only the Three-Eyed Raven… The thought of Bran hearing his prayer comforts him as he opens his eyes and glares up at the bleeding face in the wood. "I believe in you." he whispers, wondering if only the wind would hear it. Benjen knew exactly what would happen when Bran crossed under The Wall… the same magic that protects it, protected The Three-Eyed Raven's lair. The Night King left his mark on Bran's wrist, and when Bran had shown Benjen the claw-like bruises, a realization took hold of him. _This is how they make it over The Wall. This is how it's meant to happen. Bran, it's not your fault… it's mine for never telling you. I knew you wouldn't go if I did… and no matter what happens, The Night King must never get hold of you…_ "Forgive me. I am only a man." Benjen weeps, caressing the weirwood's bleeding face.

Afterwards, Benjen says goodbye to his black horse. The tough old beast had loyally stuck with him since he'd found her fending for herself, and had remained his only friend in the bitter, long night. He pats her with his cold, scarred hands and whishes her the best of luck, thanking her. The horse looks at him and he can tell she doesn't understand what's happening. He removes the saddle from her, tossing it into the snow, and then smacks her on the behind to send her running… She gallops away and Benjen never sees her again. He sniffs, wiping a tear out of his eye, before turning to face The Wall.

Trudging through the snow, Benjen arrives in the snowy field that separates the forest from The Wall. The giant gates that led through to Castle Black are still there, blocking all from entering; as is the enormous fissure running down the length of the ice. _It's my fault this happened… I'm sorry, Bran. If I'd told you the truth… I would've had to take you by force. I can sense it… right now… if those gates opened, I would be able to walk through them... and if I can do it, then that means…_ Benjen approaches until he stands in the middle of the clearing, tilting his head up and staring at the top of the Wall, piercing the pitch-black sky. Somewhere up above, a horn is blowing three times…

Benjen closes his eyes as the blistering snow strokes his face. He slowly turns around, drawing his sword…

Standing amidst the trees and stepping out into the field, the White Walkers appear.

Thousands emerge from the woods… Wights in armor and bloody rags, their swords and axes clutched in their claws; men, women, and children all. The Wights jerk around with every step, like puppets on strings. Their puppeteer, The Night King, is with by three blue-eyed, bearded White Walkers. All four of them are adorned in black armor. The Night King is staring directly at Benjen from across the field while his army of the dead quietly stands by, spread out as far as he can see to his east and west… None of them making a sound.

" _Night's King!"_ Benjen yells in a grizzly voice over the wind. _"You've finally showed your face!"_

The Night King does not respond. None of them do. Benjen scowls at them, his sword in one hand while the other unfurls a steel ball-and-chain, coated in oil. Benjen sparks flint together and the steel sphere goes up in a whirl of flames. _"I wonder…"_ Benjen says loudly, _"Are you craven enough to let your mindless insects fight for you?! Or will you face me like a man!?"_

The Night's King smiles, chilling Benjen's blood. His blue eyes never blink or look away as he begins to stride toward him. With his right hand, he reaches up and disconnects the long, curved weapon from his back. It's unlike any blade the others in his army used, even his lieutenants, who wield swords of ice. The King's blade is ice as well, curved like a sickle, and as long as a greatsword. The King of the Dead grips it in both hands, leaving his army behind as he comes to a stop fifteen feet from Benjen.

"Do you know who I am?" Benjen asks him, wondering if the Devil is even capable of responding.

Once again, the pale, horned demon doesn't answer. His bright, blue eyes are locked on Benjen, waiting…

"I was dead once." Benjen goes on, white fog escaping his breath, "Killed by one of those swords of ice. The children brought me back with dragonglass; pushed it right through my heart. Guess we have that in common." _If I can kill him, it might put an end to his control over the dead. I could end all of this right here, right now!_ "What's wrong? Can't speak?"

The Night's King's smile slowly falls, unamused. Benjen sighs, turning his sword over in his left hand, smiling as memories of all the times he fought with this blade come rushing back to him. He remembers every enemy, every kill… "My name is Benjen Stark!" He declares, his legs carrying him toward his enemy. "For as long as I draw breath, _you will never make it over this Wall! Let us end this!"_

Benjen charges as gusts of wind try to push him back. _"FOR THE WATCH!"_ He roars, swinging his sword with one hand while spinning the blazing chain in the other. He strikes with the sword first, and its steel meets the blue edge of the Night King's scythe, deflecting the blow as Benjen expects—but the sheer, insurmountable strength behind the scythe Benjen doesn't anticipate; he's thrown backward off his feet before he could bring his flaming ball-and-chain down. _Night gathers, and now my watch begins._ Benjen barely has time to step left and avoid the Night King's retaliation. _It shall not end until my death._ The chain-on-fire spins wildly, and the King of the Dead deftly steps away to avoid its blow. _I shall take no wife,_ the scythe come rushing up to his face, and Benjen dives to the right this time, _hold no lands,_ he catches himself before he can fall into the snow, shoving his sword forward in attempt to pierce the Night's King's chest, _father no children!_ The scythe whirlwinds, deflecting the sword with ease, and this time the steel shatters, leaving Benjen with only a hilt, and the force of its destruction numbs his entire left arm. _I shall wear no crowns and win no glory!_ With only the chain of fire left at his disposal, Benjen throws the hilt into the snow. _I shall live and die at my post!_ Flames spark as the chain connects with the scythe, wrapping around its curved blade of ice. _I am the sword in the darkness!_ The Night's King yanks him inward, and Benjen is suddenly face to face with the blue-eyed demon, his wicked smile returning, revealing a row of fangs. _I am the watcher on the walls!_ Benjen snarls as he butts foreheads with the Night King, his horns stabbing painfully through his forehead. Both of them stumble backward. _I am the shield that guards the realms of men!_ The chain's still caught on the scythe. Benjen wrenches on it, and the Night's King, who was already thrown off balance from the head-butt, is suddenly forced to let go of his weapon. _I pledge my life!_ The success drives Benjen to bellow with rage as he spins the chain and scythe over his head in a circular motion. _And Honor!_ The Night's King's grin falls into an ugly grimace as Benjen swings the scythe down. _To the Night's Watch!_ The curved ice slices through the Night King's armored plating, tearing off a piece from his shoulder. The blade doesn't quite penetrate, but it's enough to send his enemy sprawling backward. Benjen brings the heavy scythe around with his chain, his right arm growing number by the second. He knows this has to be the killing blow, or his strength will give, and he dares not try to wield the scythe with his own hands unless he has to. _F_ _or this night!_ The Night's King reaches up, as if to try and catch the attack. Benjen doesn't hold back—be throws his whole weight into the strike. _A_ _nd all the nights to come!_

The Night King's scythe freezes in mid-air by some invisible force, inches away from his outstretched palms, and the chain attached to it unexpectedly explodes in a mist of metal and fire, burning Benjen's hand. He cries with pain, falling backward into the snow as the fire from his chain engulfs his forearm. Benjen plunges his burning arm into the snow and hears it fizzle out. _No!_ Benjen glares up at the Night's King, his mutilated hand trembling, reeking of burnt flesh. _No… I was so close…_ The Night's King glares icily down at him as he picks up his scythe… _So close…_

Benjen decides he won't go down like this. He wills his burned hand to cease its trembling and stands back up on his old, exhausted legs. Warm blood from where the Night King's horns had penetrated leaks down his eyebrows. He wipes it out of his vision with his numb left arm and laughs loudly and without fear at his enemy. "Even if you kill me, I've already done what I set out to do. I bought the people of Westeros a few extra precious seconds of life. That's just about the most meaningful death a man like me could hope for."

If the Night's King understands him, he gives no sign of it as he towers over him. Benjen stands rooted to the spot, refusing to look away as the scythe's blue, curved blade plunges through his gut and out his back.

 _Death is a familiar feeling_ , Benjen realizes, his legs going numb but rejecting to buckle. As blood rushes up his throat, Benjen laughs bitterly. _I must be the only one in the world who knows what it's like to die twice._ His laughter stops as the scythe is vehemently jerked back out of him. Benjen Stark coughs up blood, and begins to fall… The Night's King catches him with one hand wrapped around his throat, suffocating him. Benjen gasps as his blood instantly goes cold. The King of the Dead's bright, blue eyes are the last thing Benjen sees before his life is extinguished…

 _Rise…_

 _Rise, my child…_

 _RISE!_

Benjen Stark rises from the snow, his blue eyes gazing at nothing.

The Night's King turns and faces the rest of his Dead, raising his arms up at his side and outstretching his fingers.

 _BRING IT DOWN!_

Benjen turns and faces The Wall. He runs to it as fast as he can, so do the rest. Benjen is the closest and reaches the icy surface first, slamming into it with all his weight, digging his fingers into it, scratching at it, gnawing at it, pounding at it. When the others join him Benjen is abruptly crushed and pinned underneath thousands of skeletal corpses, each one climbing over each-other to hack away at the ice with their axes and swords. Despite all this, Benjen continues to beat his fists at the ice until they're only bloody stumps. The ice in front of his face is barely dented or cracked, only blood smears it. The other dead men, women, and children, however, are chipping huge chunks of ice away with their weapons, scampering over each-other like ants. Bones and limbs constantly impede his progress, but Benjen doesn't give in. With his bloody stumps for arms he pounds and pounds and pounds away… and a deep crack begins to slither up the ice, joining the many others…


	94. Arya X

Arya

When Arya wakes from unconsciousness, she can't move. Her wrists and ankles are chained down on a flat table in the center of a cold, dark dungeon. Only a single flickering torch hanging above her gives any light to her black surroundings. Her vision's distorted at first and her head feels light and dizzy. Memories come flooding back once her eyes land on who is standing over her outstretched, bare feet. _Cersei!_

The Mad Queen's face is bruised and beaten. Her right eye's swollen shut while her left glares piercingly down at her. A cut across her lips from where Arya savagely struck her starts to bleed as Cersei smiles, "I was wondering how long I'd have to wait."

Arya grunts, jerking her arms and legs fruitlessly against the chains, barely lifting them an inch off the table she's trapped to. Cersei is amused by this, and slowly makes her away around her side, clutching a golden pitcher… but not drinking from it.

"You almost had me." Cersei admits, "I was on the verge of death. You had me right where you wanted me… How long did it take you? How much planning did you have to do? It's been years since you fled the capital, and now here you are. I can only imagine where you've been. I imagine you must've gone through a lot just to get a chance at killing me. You even killed my Hand and stole his face. The only people in the world capable of that are the Faceless Men in Braavos. Is that where you've been? _Hmm..._ They don't let just anyone into their ranks. You must've been something special…" She pauses, swirling her goblet back and forth in her grasp, her one open eye unblinkingly bearing down into Arya's. "So how does it feel, lying there now, knowing everything you worked for was for nothing?" Cersei chuckles to herself, striding right up beside Arya's head.

If her teeth weren't clenched together in anger, Arya might've answered. Instead she only glares up at her, eyes bulging, saliva oozing down her cheek. Cersei raises an eyebrow at her. "It must be painful?"

" _YOU KILLED MY FATHER!"_ Arya blurts out, lurching against her chains. _"YOU KILLED GENDRY!"_

"Gendry?" Cersei tilts her head.

" _The Iron Bull!"_ Arya snaps, _"He was my friend! You murdered him!"_

Cersei snorts. " _Please._ That fanatic was hardly anything to get upset about. A girl like you could do so much better."

Arya shrieks, her wrists and ankles beginning to bleed as she desperately tugs at her chains. _"I will kill you!"_ Arya swears, _"If it's the last thing I do—I will kill—"_

"You're hardly in any position to be making threats." Cersei says, tilting her pitcher over Arya's face. Arya expects this—but what she does not expect is for the wine to be scalding hot. All of the sudden her whole face is burning as if from fire, splashing into her eyes—blinding her—and Arya screams and splutters as the sweltering wine fills her nostrils and lungs, suffocating her. Cersei pours the entire contents of her pitcher, every last sizzling drop, and when it's over Arya's left gasping for air and trembling.

"What were you saying?" Cersei asks, leaning her ear in.

" _I… will… kill… you…"_ Arya breathes, her face still searing with white hot pain, now red with blisters. She winces, blinking rapidly to try and regain her sight—but everything's a colorless blur. _I'm blind again._ Cersei's face is a grinning shadow.

Cersei lowers the empty pitcher, wincing just from holding its handle. "You are a tough kid. I respect that, you know. Not enough women in this world have the guts to go after what they want. You're certainly more impressive than your _sister_. Sansa was such a _spoiled_ child—her head filled with fantasies. I tried to teach her the best I could, but… well, she turned out to be more trouble than she's worth. _I had her executed_."

Arya grunts, weakly tugging at her chains again and again. _Sansa is in the North with Jon, that's what Gendry said. She's lying to try and hurt me._ She doesn't respond to Cersei's taunts. She can torture her physically, but Arya would not give Cersei the satisfaction of torturing her emotions.

"I had her head placed right next to your father's." Cersei goes on, moving over to a dark corner in the room and fiddling with something metallic sounding. "She begged me for mercy, just like you will."

Arya cackles with unrestrained laughter. "I'll never beg you for anything, you stupid bitch."

Cersei turns around, holding a huge pair of pliers in her hands. "I'd be disappointed if it was going to be easy. I was going to spend the night getting drunk and fucking Dickon Tarly, but then you come along and it's like the Gods have given me _one last gift_."

"You're a _liar_." Arya spits, "Sansa is still alive. You tried to have her killed but she slipped through your fingers, didn't she?" She laughs, unintimidated by the Mad Queen's tool, remembering the play she watched in Braavos. "Is it because she poisoned your precious Joffrey? If she did, then my sister has bigger balls than I thought. _Your son is burning in the seven hells where he belongs!_ "

If Cersei is scowling, Arya can't tell, but she likes to think she is, because Cersei doesn't say a word in response. She only glides toward her, bending the pliers over her right hand and picking up her index finger. Cersei squeezes and Arya screams as the metal crushes the bones in her finger, tugging hard until it bends all the way back over the top of her knuckles. Arya bites down on her tongue, tasting blood as tears leak down her cheeks. Cersei chortles, holding the pliers in place for a whole, agonizing minute—until abruptly releasing her finger… Her whole hand jitters against Arya's will, her broken index finger still unnaturally bent out of shape.

"Normally I have The Mountain do this, you know." Cersei says softly, almost mother-like, to Arya. "I don't enjoy torture, I'd rather not get my hands dirty… but I just had to make a _special exception_ for you. You killed my Hand and _almost_ killed _me_ … Tell me, how did you get The Mountain to leave his post? Was it because you were wearing Qyburn's face and using his voice somehow? Please, do share." She picks up Arya's middle finger in her hands this time and sharply bends it backward, forcing another scream out of the Stark girl.

"Go… fuck… yourself." Arya grunts in defiance. Cersei bends the ring finger next, then the pinky. She grabs her thumb last, clutching it tightly in her sweaty hands, discarding the pliers. When it bends, Arya doesn't scream. Her whole hand is dead numb, and she's slowly losing consciousness again…

So, Cersei smacks her across the face, forcing her awake.

"Tell me what I want to know." Cersei says calmly.

Arya spits up blood into her hair, her eyes half-closed. She turns her blind gaze on the Queen, smiling maniacally. "You were right… The Faceless Men trained me… They taught me everything I know… I used The Hand's face and learned his voice to control The Mountain…"

" _How clever of you_." Cersei sighs. "I had Qyburn's face burned after you were caught. Without that, The Mountain will only listen to me now. You wasted your chance, foolish girl. You could have had The Mountain kick my door in and cut me down before I could cry for help. Why didn't you?"

Arya rolls her eyes. "I… wanted to be the one… to do it…" she admits quietly.

"A Stark with pride. _How rare_." Cersei giggles sarcastically. "Your father's pride got him killed as well. You truly do walk in his footsteps, Arya Stark."

"Pride didn't kill my father," Arya argues, " _You did."_

"I wasn't alone." Cersei grins. "True, I had no love for him, but I alone did not decide your father's fate. In fact, I proposed he be sent to The Wall. Joffrey didn't listen."

"Joffrey was only your puppet."

" _If only that were true_." Cersei sighs, and she actually sounds sad at this, to Arya's surprise. "You know nothing, Arya Stark. You're just a little girl playing at assassin."

" _Then kill me and be done with it_!"

"I think not." Cersei shakes her head, setting the pliers down. "For now, I must leave. Morning is almost here, and I have to be prepared… For now, I'll hand you over to Clegane."

At the mention of Clegane, Arya half expects Sandor Clegane to come marching into the dungeon all of the sudden. But it's Sandor's much larger brother who enters, adorned in his bloody golden armor, his red eyes fixated on Arya. _He's here._

"Without your mask, you can't control him anymore, _can you?_ " Cersei asks, and Arya can practically taste her drunk confidence. "Go ahead, tell him to strike me down in Qyburn's voice, or I'll cut out your tongue right now."

Arya grunts, in the voice she used to impersonate Qyburn, knowing it won't work, " _Kill her, Ser Gregor! Kill your Queen!_ "

The Mountain remains frozen by Cersei's side.

"I look forward to seeing how your attitude has changed when I return, Arya Stark." Cersei laughs as she exits the dungeon, leaving her giant looming over Arya and the table.

When the door clicks shut and locks, Arya watches with apprehension as The Mountain descends upon her, his golden hand reaching for her legs…

Arya speaks the words she heard Qyburn use that day on the docks, the day the Mountain had gone wild and killed everyone. She remembers every word, having closed her eyes in order to hear what The Hand whispered, and Arya repeated them over and over in her head ever since, like her mantra.

" _You raped her. You murdered her. You killed her children_."

The Mountain's hand freezes, his fingers mere inches from her flesh. His golden helmet turns and his red eyes glare at her. At first, Arya doesn't know if it worked, so she repeats it: _"You raped her. You murdered her. You killed her children."_

Something miraculous happens, something not even Arya had expected. The Mountain reaches up with both his hands and grips head, then beneath his visor, rises a muffled moan of pain. _"You raped her. You murdered her. You killed her children!"_ Arya says again, louder and more determined. The Mountain stumbles backward into the dungeon wall, throwing his helmet off his head. Arya's nearly blind, but she can still tell his face is unlike that of a normal human's. She says it again, gaining more and more confidence with every word. "You raped her. You murdered her. You killed her children! You _raped_ her! You _murdered_ her! You _killed_ her _children_! _You raped her! You murdered her! You killed her children_!"

The Mountain collapses to his knees, groaning in hellish anguish. Bleeding tears run down his cheeks from his eyes, ears and mouth, as though his brain is internally expanding. Arya stops short of saying it again, watching the huge man in armor writhe like a child. _I don't know who this woman is he raped and murdered, but it's working! Somehow, it's working!_ Arya grins, and says, "Your master is dead. I'm your new master now. If you never want to hear those words again, _release me."_

She isn't sure if he will understand her… when The Mountain climbs to his feet, he reaches for her ankles… and breaks the chains with his hands. He then makes his way to her wrists and does the same. Up close, Arya can make out an expression of absolute sadness on the Mountain's pale, decomposed face. She sits up on the table and examines her broken fingers, wincing at every slight movement.

The Mountain just stands there, staring at her, waiting. Arya looks him up and down, thinking… _Cersei doesn't know about the words. She never would've left him alone with me if she did. Qyburn must've hid it from her so that only he could truly control the Mountain, in case she ever tried to turn him against him._ Arya climbs steadily off the table, gently touching her cheeks with her only working hand. It's still burning hot, but Arya doesn't care. At this point, no amount of pain was going to stop her. _And I won't make the same mistake twice._

Arya looks up at the Mountain and says, "Don't just _stand_ there. Open the door. And pick up your helmet, _you idiot_. I've got a Queen to kill."


	95. The Battle for King's Landing

The Battle for King's Landing

When the sun rises, it begins.

Drums boom loudly in unison along every warship, signaling the dawn of the battle. Beyond the city walls, the tower bells were ringing a warning to its citizens for the past several hours. Everyone in King's Landing knew about the invasion, having witnessed the dragons with their own eyes, and many try to flee but the Gold Cloaks are under orders to keep everyone inside the city walls, ' _for protection_...' So, because of these _noble_ city guardsmen, terrified families are hiding in their homes, clutching their children and whispering words of comfort in their ears, trying to assure themselves just as much as their offspring that everything will be alright.

The Crown's soldiers, a swarm of Lannisters in red and guardsmen in gold, amass on the eastern walls over Blackwater Bay while Randyll Tarly, the new Lord Commander of the army in Jaime's stead, barks orders at his lieutenants up and down the length of the parapets; his face red and glistening with sweat as they all face down the approaching ships, their war drums thundering up to shake several of his bravest men in their boots. The Tarly soldiers, as well as his Bannermen, can tell Randyll is nervous, and it darkens their spirits. Together they have almost 60,000 strong, or at least that was Randyll's estimates. Only so many of their Bannermen had answered the call… Looking out over the bay, he calculates the enemy's strength being only that of a ten thousand, mostly Unsullied with about two thousand Ironborn, strangely enough. _Never thought the Squid and the Dragon would unite together. I don't see any more allies beyond that..._ _We can beat them back. Even with dragons, they don't have the numbers to defeat us._ He orders the archers to _dip_ , _nock_ , _draw_ , and _hold_. His command repeats down the length of the wall until every archer obeys, dipping the tips of their arrows into vats of oil being passed around.

In the bay, the Ironborn and the Unsullied are preparing small-boats to board the coast while every warship stays just out of the archer's range. Theon Greyjoy joins his sister, and grasps her arm. _"I'll see you on the shore, little brother!"_ Yara tells him over the thundering of drums. Theon nods, tears in his eyes. She notices and smiles teasingly, wiping his face off with her thumb. "Don't be afraid. This is _our_ day!"

Greyworm's ordering his men around with a hard expression, when Missandei gradually approaches him and the two give each other one last, long stare… He begins to turn and join his men in the small-boats…instead, he marches up to Missandei, grabs her around the waist, and plants a firm kiss upon her lips. When he pulls away, she whispers: "Come back to me."

"I will."

Aboard _the Red Wind_ , Tyrion and Daenerys watch from Drogon's back, as the vanguard of their fleet begin the invasion. The three dragons are anxiously awaiting their mother's word to take flight, but Tyrion had advised her to wait until the right moment. The drum's steady rhythm abruptly ceases, signaling that Greyworm and the Ironborn are ready. Up above, the black sky slowly brightens by the sunlight, revealing the thousands of men along the walls—black specs on the horizon. Daenerys shouts, _"FLY!"_ and Drogon spreads his wings, leaping off from the golden dragon head attached to the bow of her flagship. He is followed in tow by Viserion and Rhaegal, each screeching with excitement. Tyrion clutches onto Dany's thin waist as tight as he can to keep from slipping off. Daenerys takes him high above her army—then above the walls of King's Landing—then above the Red Keep itself, the world disappearing under clouds, reminding Tyrion just how beautiful it can be up here, away from it all... Then without warning, Dany cries, and they plummet, spiraling downward, Tyrion's ass lifting up off Drogon's scales so that he's flying too—attached only by his hands. Dany holds onto his grasp and is laughing as they fall. The clouds part to reveal King's Landing once more. Lord Randyll Tarly shouts, _"LOOSE!"_

Every archer—at least _twenty thousand_ in all—releases an arrow. Randyll stands above the Iron Gate with mostly Tarly archers, who aim at the dragons while the rest along the walls fire volleys down into the invading ships. Screams from the Ironborn and Unsullied are heard down below—but Dany forces herself to focus and shouts, _"DRACARYS!"_

All three dragons rear their heads back, open their jaws, and release a gust of fire that cloaks the arrows coming their way, incinerating them. The dragons burst through the smoke they create—and the men on the walls scream in terror, having nowhere near enough time to redraw, not that it matters. Drogon's shadow sweeps over the parapets, and a flood of flames rush down to meet every archer in its path. Hundreds are swallowed in the fire, their screams piercing the sky as men go tumbling down over the edge, ablaze. Those lucky enough to be far away from Drogon are soon unlucky enough to cross Viserion or Rhaegal, who swoop down on either side of their black, scaled brother, screaming fire down the north and south lengths of the wall while Drogon turns and flies them back up into the sky again, avoiding a shower of arrows from the city streets.

Down in the bay, Theon witnesses the destruction above and bellows with nervous excitement alongside the rest of his Ironborn soldiers. They row with all their might as arrows plunge into the water like deadly rain. The Ironborn man on his right is sent spiraling into the sea when two arrows bury themselves in his chest. Theon lifts his shield, and the others copy him, hiding and deflecting as many arrows as they can before they reach the shore. Some arrows are alight with fire, and catch one of the nearby boats carrying barrels of oil, instantly burning three men alive before they even have the chance to dive into the sea to save themselves… Theon sees Yara board the shore with her soldiers first, commanding everyone to charge the Iron Gate. The Unsullied are leading a boarding party up the length of Blackwater Rush to break down the Mud Gate. By the time Theon's feet land in the sand, hundreds of Ironborn soldiers are already there, charging up the beach. Burning arrows still rain down into their shields, and several unlucky Ironborn running beside Theon are struck down in the blink of an eye. Theon looks back and realizes he's the only one from his small-boat to survive the onslaught. _Well done, Reek. Why don't you lower your shield and take one for the team!?_

Theon grunts, unable to force Ramsay's voice out of his thoughts, as he joins Yara at the Iron Gate. Her face is speckled with blood from her own fallen comrades, but her eyes are alive with excitement. The Ironborn carry a long, metal battering ram up from the sea. Yara spurs them on—but several men carrying it are shot down halfway there. Theon takes it upon himself to rush over and help, screaming at the men still lifting it _not to give up!_ They somehow manage to bring the battering ram up the beach and begin repeatedly smashing it into the gates. Rocks come tumbling down over their heads, crashing skulls open and spilling bodies around their feet.

Greyworm is still leading the Unsullied along the beach in formation—their shields acting like a long, black roof to deflect incoming arrows and rocks. When they reach the mud gate, they reveal a second battering ram they've been hiding beneath their shields. It crashes into the gate and after the very first blow, its hinges give way— _the gate's still weak from the battle with Stannis!_ Greyworm realizes. The gates blow apart with ease—and Greyworm's army is suddenly face to face with the Lannisters inside. Both sides holler with rage and clash inside the gateway—spears soaring over heads—swords and shields clanging—blood spilling—Greyworm is in thick of it, ducking and dodging and weaving his way through the Lannisters with his spear, deftly plunging it through every man in red armor he can. One of the Lannister soldiers catches him off guard, knocking him upside the head with their shield. As Greyworm stumbles back in a daze, the Lannister raises his sword—and out of nowhere comes Strong Belwas like a boulder, throwing Lannisters out of his way with his bare hands, knocking their heads against the stone walls and slicing his curved arakh through their exposed necks. Greyworm thanks the giant man for his help—but his gratitude goes unheard over Strong Belwas' bellowing war-cry. He laughs as several Lannisters attempt to slash their swords across his bulging belly, but they might as well have tried to cut down a tree—for their blades hardly sink an inch deep. Strong Belwas throws them out of his way, leading the charge with Greyworm through the mud gate and into the city—where thousands of Lannisters and Gold Cloaks still await them, lined in formation with swordsman on the streets and archers on rooftops, aiming down at them.

Randyll Tarly abandons the walls, commanding all of his men to do the same and retreat inside the city. _"Where the FUCK is the bloody wildfire!?"_ Randyll demands, searching for the alchemist but finding himself trapped within a sea of soldiers. _"Damn you, Cersei! You said we would use it, we need it now! Someone find me the damned alchemist!"_ The dragons are simply too much for them to handle. Drogon has landed atop the parapets and the two others are encircling him, breathing a wall of fire up and down the length of the wall. Drogon picks up Gold Cloaks in his jaws and throws them out over the wall where the plummet to their deaths, screaming all the way. _This is hopeless!_ decides Randyll, running down the steps and into the city where five thousand Tarly and Lannister soldiers are watching the inside of the Iron Gates sway under the pressure from outside. "When they break through, _ALL OF YOU MUST FIGHT!"_ Randyll barks, elbowing his way through his men and fleeing down the street as fast as his old legs can carry him, _"FIGHT TO THE LAST MAN! AND AIM YOUR BLOODY ARROWS AT THOSE DRAGONS!"_

Despite his command, hundreds of the archers are attempting to shoot the dragons down, and the half of them that managed to hit would simply bounce off their armored scales. Daenerys and Tyrion duck down low along Drogon's spine as arrows whistle past their heads. _"We can't stay here!"_ Tyrion cries behind her, _"It's too dangerous! If there's Wildfire hiding within the walls, we don't want to be sitting on them! Take us back up!"_

To Dany's amazement, she doesn't need to give the command. It's as if Drogon understands what Tyrion said, his wings spreading out as the black beast takes flight once more; his siblings following him as he flies over the great, warring city. Down below, the Lannisters are swarming to the inner gates like little insects. Dany scans across the city to the west, and smiles.

The Dothraki, the Tyrells, and the Martells have arrived outside the western walls, blowing war horns to signal their appearance. The western walls are completely undefended on their end, as by Tyrion's design. Dany turns Drogon in the direction of their reinforcements, and the smallfolk all cry out and point up at them in awe from the streets still untouched by the battle. "Where are we going?" Tyrion asks her.

"To knock down those gates for them."

Theon watches as the Iron Gate groans and bursts inward by their battering ram, allowing the sea of Ironborn to flood through—smashing against the Lannister shields waiting for them. Yara Greyjoy leads the way, swinging an axe in one hand and a shortsword in the other, laughing at every Lannister and Gold Cloak that tries to fight her. Theon is amazed by her prowess, and hears Ramsay taunting him again: _She's got bigger balls than you. She's making you look bad, Reek!_

 _Shut up!_ Theon swings his sword at the first enemy soldier he comes across—a man in red sleeves with a huntsman displayed across his shield—the Tarly soldier dodges the attack, and thrusts his own sword at Theon in return. _Look out, Reek!_ Theon parries just in time, feeling the enemy's blade scratch his cheek, he steps in and pierces his sword through the Tarly soldier's neck. The stranger's eyes bulge in terror as blood rivers down his chin. Theon yanks his sword out as he falls and another soldier, this one a Lannister, bombards him with a broadsword. Theon tries to dodge, but trips against another pair of soldiers fighting each other—and all three go down in a heap, Theon scrambles for his sword before any of the others can hurt him, lifting his blade in time to deflect another broadsword attack. All around him, screams deafen his ears, intensifying Ramsay's taunts; _You're going to die, Reek! Get up and run! Flee like the coward you are!_

* * *

Deep beneath the city, Jorah Mormont leads a party of a hundred Unsullied men through the catacombs. Varys had given him a map with directions to the Alchemist's guild. They had started while it was night out, yet after hours of trudging through dark, muddy tunnels, Jorah was beginning to think the Spider had lied. It isn't until they reached a long, well-lit chamber full of empty shelves that Jorah realized they're there. Just as the Imp said, chains hung from the ceiling where vats of sand swung suspended in mid-air. _But where's all the wildfire?_ Jorah commands his men to spread out and find them. He finds an old man in a cowl at the end of one of the tunnels and sneaks up on him, pinning him against the wall. The alchemist squeals in fright, his hands up in the air. _"Don't kill me, please!"_ He moans.

" _Where is it?!"_ Jorah snarls, his new, fiery arm pulsating heat. The alchemist whimpers and says he doesn't understand. _"WHERE IS THE WILDFIRE?! TELL ME!"_

" _T-T-They took it!"_ The alchemist whimpers.

" _Who?!"_

" _The children! They took all of it!"_

" _WHERE?!"_

" _I-I'll show you. F-Follow me…"_

* * *

Daenerys and her dragons land on the ground behind each of the three western gates. _"Dracarys!"_ she commands, and all three blow relentless flames at the gates—melting through the metal and wooden beams until they groan and collapse. As the smoke curls into the sky—the Dothraki come charging through, screaming with lust as their horses gallop past starving peasants in the street, who gape at the foreign horse lords in fear. Dany is relieved to see that they are following her orders and leaving the civilians alone. The Tyrells and Martell forces follow them inside, and Dany observes as over hundred and sixty thousand allied soldiers spread out down every street, making way for the battle on the eastern front.

"We've done it." Tyrion says in Dany's ear. "We've successfully invaded the city. We have Cersei's army cornered! _There's nowhere for them to run!_ I don't know what Cersei is thinking, I expected they'd at least use the wildfire to fling at our ships with catapults… Perhaps Jorah has been successful after-all?"

* * *

In the Red Keep up on Aegon's High Hill overlooking the battle that surrounds it, one might expect Cersei to be observing the conflict from her chambers and drinking from her goblet of wine. But she is not there. Cersei has no interest in watching the battle. Cersei is strolling down into the dungeons surrounded by her six new Queensguard, all of them wincing and jumping whenever they hear the dragons roar outside. Cersei had been informed of their names by Qyburn, but she hardly cared enough to remember them; the exception being Dickon, her savior. She leads them to the dungeon where she expects to find Arya Stark in the middle of being raped by The Mountain … When she opens the door, however, Cersei freezes… her smile dissolving into a scowl… They're gone. Both of them. The chains broken on the table…

"What's the matter, Your Grace?" Dickon asks behind her.

"Nothing." Cersei seethes, closing the door. "Let us return to the Throne Room. Keep your eyes open. I don't want any surprises getting there."

" _Surprises_?" Dickon blinks and looks at the other newly elected Queensguard, all of whom appear frightened by Cersei. "You mean that girl from last night?"

"Yes, _you idiot_ , that's exactly what I mean."

"Wasn't the Mountain with her?" Dickon glances at the dungeon door and puts two-and-two together. "Did she escape? Wh-where's _The Mountain_?"

"Stop asking so many questions." Cersei's fingers are balled up into clenched fists, bleeding. She has her guards lead her up out of the dungeons, checking every corner for signs of an ambush.

Dickon won't shut up. "Shouldn't we be fighting with the rest of the men, Your Grace?"

"You're place is by your Queen. No doubt you'll get your chance to fight soon enough."

They make it all the way to the Throne Room without trouble. Cersei climbs the steps and takes her seat on the Iron Throne, her Queensguard arrange themselves in a protective line before her. _Wherever she went, she's sure to try again._ Cersei glares around at every pillar, paranoidly convinced the Stark girl is hiding in here, watching her... _"Come out, Arya Stark!"_

Her guards jump, and Dickon casts her an unsure, nervous look, "Your Grace?"

Cersei ignores him. " _I know you're hiding in here somewhere!_ _Show yourself!_ _You'll run out of time before long!"_

Her shouts reverberate off the walls and ceiling, filling the silence with her impatient voice. The Queensguard shuffle in their armor uneasily... Cersei clenches up, her fingers slicing themselves across the iron barbs around her… Nothing answers her… nothing moves…

Until the Mountain steps out from the shadows near the front of the room. With him, as Cersei predicted, is Arya Stark. Her face is red and peeling from the scalding wine Cersei had tortured her with; her right hand is bandaged together in cloth, her fingers bent back into place, tied together, and useless... The Queensguard all rush to stand between her and the Queen, their swords drawn. The Mountain releases his greatsword and strides toward them.

" _Ser Gregor Clegane, I command you to cut that girl down this instant_!" Cersei commands, standing from her throne. The Mountain doesn't even seem to hear her though, and Arya cackles with laughter.

"He's _mine_ now." Arya says. " _Mountain_ , kill anyone that defends her."

" _Impossible!"_ Cersei shrieks, her bruised, bleeding eyes bulging wide. _"Ser Gregor, I command you to obey me! KILL HER OR I'LL HAVE YOUR HEAD!"_

The Mountain lifts his greatsword and the Queensguard scatter in fear—all except Dickon Tarly, who bravely raises his shield to block the attack. The force of the greatsword sags the metal under its weight, instantly breaking Dickon's arm with a thick _CRUNCH!_ The young boy wails in agony, dropping to his knees as the Mountain delivers a brutal kick to his face. The toe of his boot sinks through Dickon's skull and smashes out the back of his head—spraying brain matter across the Throne Room's spotless floor. Dickon's body collapses… and the rest of Cersei's Queensguard flee the room, screaming in terror, abandoning Cersei Lannister on her throne…

The Mountain lowers his sword as Arya joins him at his side, grinning wide-eyed up at the Queen. _"How does it feel?"_ Arya asks, "Knowing that you had me in the palm of your hands and I still _slipped through_?"

Cersei's lips tremble and her eyes glisten with tears… Slowly, she reaches down and removes Widow's Wail from her sheath. "Alright, Arya Stark… You've got me. Well done… You can kill me right now if you want… But after all the hard work you went through to get here… you wouldn't want the job to be done by some mindless servant… no… _you want to kill me yourself_ , isn't that right?"

Arya draws Needle and says, "You're right," then glances up at the Mountain. "Go watch the doors, _you idiot_. Don't let anyone enter."

The Mountain turns and obeys. Cersei grimaces as she descends her stairs, the valyrian steel sword in her hand gleaming under the torchlight. "Your pride will be the end of you, Arya."

"We'll see about that." Arya says, spreading her legs and placing her injured hand behind the small of her back. With her left hand, she points Needle up at the Queen in the water-dancing stance she learned from Syrio.

"Do you even know how to _swing_ that _thing?"_ Cersei asks.

"Better than you know how to swing yours." Arya retorts.

Cersei scowls. "I've seen my brother fight many times. I've witnessed more trials by combat than you have, and unlike you, I'm not a child. This isn't a game. You should have taken the chance and had The Mountain cut me down. _Can you even see anymore, or are did I blind you earlier_?"

"Shut up." Arya growls, "You think you can fight— _then prove it_ ; give me everything you've got. I want to see that smug look on your face die right before I cut off your ugly head."

The Stark and the Lannister glare each other down while the commotion of battle rages on outside the walls. Without warning, Cersei lunges for Arya—and Widow's Wail clashes with Needle.

* * *

Drogon, Rhaegal, and Viserion soar over the vast city, each giving off an ear-splitting roar as the battle rages on. The Dothraki hoard gallop on horseback down every street toward the east and south of King's Landing where the bulk of the battle is taking place. The Ironborn and the Unsullied are successfully pushing through the Lannisters, Tarlys, and Gold Cloaks while the walls above fumed with fire. The trapped soldiers can be heard screaming as the flames sweep through them. Daenerys and Tyrion watch in awe and horror as the remaining Lannister archers leap off the walls and fall 300 feet to their deaths, rather than be burned alive. _Even though they're our enemies, I can't help but feel for them…_ Tyrion watches two men cling onto one-another, screaming as they plunge into the city…

In the midst of the battle, Theon is nearly crushed by the bodies raining down around him. They crash with explosions of blood and limbs. A Gold Cloak that Theon was clashing swords with is abruptly crushed underneath one of these bodies—and a splash of warm blood masks his stunned face. Up ahead, Yara twists and bends through the onslaught of red and grey soldiers, her shortsword and axe skillfully tearing apart the Lannisters while her Ironborn die to defend her from enemies beyond her line of sight. Theon rushes to join her, his ears pounding painfully. _She's stealing your glory, Reek!_ The street they're on is packed from end to end with men on both sides fighting in tight quarters—shoved up against each other so that it's impossible to maneuver through without a force at your back, _luckily Yara has such a force_ —her Ironborn proving just how deadly they are up close and personal; the rich, lazy, spoiled Lannisters and Gold Cloaks are just not a match for them— _but they do have the numbers to hold us off._ _Not even Yara can fight forever._

" _PULL BACK!"_ screams one of the Lannister Lieutenants, searching the crowd of soldiers for their Lord Commander, but Randyll Tarly is gone. Instead he sees, rushing toward them from the west, the Dothraki on their flanks, their horses colliding with the Lannisters before they can even see them coming. The Lieutenant gawks, and is about to scream when Yara's axe bites into his neck. The Dothraki cavalry charges over every man in red or gold armor with ease, the copper-skinned horse lords yipping with mad glee as their arakhs slice off heads and limbs. From up above, Dany and Tyrion watch as their armies force the enemy back down side-streets toward the Red Keep. "We have them on the run." Tyrion says to his Queen, "Half of their army is already wiped out. We've all but won the battle, it's time, Your Grace, to end this."

But Dany can't pretend that they haven't suffered losses as well. In the wake of the battle, thousands of Ironborn and Unsullied lay in piles along the streets. It's impossible to count just how many— _but Tyrion's right_ —their army now heavily outweighs the Lannisters. The Tyrell and Martell forces are hanging behind, knowing there's no need to join the fray yet, not with the Dothraki wiping out the Lannister lines so efficiently. The smallfolk watching the battle from their homes are cheering Dany's name. Tyrion points this out, " _The people are on your side!_ You've given them a miracle, Your Grace."

"We'll see what kind of miracle I can give them." Dany frowns, nervous as to why there hasn't been a single trace of wildfire so far. _Could Jorah really have taken care of it, or is there something we're not seeing?_ Tyrion had warned her that Cersei might've had them scattered throughout the city, but if that's the case then her soldiers would find them soon enough. The Martells and Tyrells are knocking in doors and searching houses for any signs of the dangerous, green liquid; as they planned. _The city is almost mine. There's just one thing left to do…_

* * *

Inside the Throne Room, Cersei Lannister slashes Widow's Wale over Arya's head—who's small enough to dodge her attacks and nimble enough to counter—thrusting Needle up at Cersei's chest—but either the point of her blade doesn't penetrate her thick, black, battle-dress, or Widow's Wale comes slashing down, threatening to cut Needle in half—so their dance continues. Valyrian steel is the sharpest steel in all of Westeros, and Arya's well aware that one wrong move could cost her a limp, or her life—no matter how strong the arm wielding it is, Valyrian Steel can cut anything with ease. Cersei knows this as well, and is relentless in her swings—focusing more on offense than defense. Arya keeps her footing, using Needle to redirect Cersei's attacks rather than blocking—for Widow's Wale's more than capable of slicing Needle in half if she tries to outright block any of Cersei's wild, yet predictable swings. Arya can't help but be surprised by the Mad Queen's persistence and relentlessness. More than once, Arya felt the edge of her blade come narrowly close to slicing off a piece of her—but Syrio had taught her well; she dodges and redirects, searching for the right moment to strike…

 _Quick as a cat,_ Arya plunges Needle forward as Cersei comes off of a missed swing—and the pointy end of her thin blade penetrates the black hide of her armored dress—but not enough to draw blood. Cersei emits a terrifying laugh—and her Valyrian Steel comes down over Needle. Arya pulls back, but not fast enough, so she has to lift her blade up. Thankfully, Needle isn't broken, only knocked from her grasp, clattering to the floor several feet away.

 _Shit!_ Arya dives for it as Cersei charges in for the kill. Widow's Wale smashes into the floor, inches away from Arya's legs as the young wolf rolls—simultaneously grabbing Needle once again—and when she's back on her feet, Cersei rushes in, already lifting her weapon high up in the air. _I can't block it—or Needle will break—and I don't have time to dodge_ —so Arya does the only thing she can, and lifts up her bandaged, useless hand to shield her face. The Valyrian steel cuts clean through her wrist and Arya's maimed hand is separated from her arm with a gush of blood. The pain sends fire up her arm, and she screams, stumbling backward, gawking at her bleeding stump for just a second—for that's all Cersei affords her as she sweeps in to finish the job.

* * *

Less than 20,000 Lannisters and Gold Cloaks remain, swarming the steps of the Red Keep, their backs to the castle, as more than a 150,000 of Dany's Dothraki, Tyrell, Martell, Ironborn, and Unsullied surround them. Up above, the three dragons circle the scene, breathing fire through the air, sending chills down the Lannister's spines.

The fighting has paused, both sides shouting threats, taunts, and insults at the other, the surviving combatants are covered in blood, sweat, and tears, exhausted but still on edge in case the other side decides to charge.

That's when Drogon lands upon the top of the steps behind the Lannisters, shaking the ground like an earthquake. Viserion and Rhaegal land atop the Red Keep itself, wrapping their wings around the spiraling towers. Everyone beneath them freezes in terror as Drogon opens his jaws and roars. Daenerys yells, " _The Battle is ours!_ Drop your weapons and your lives will be spared! Continue to fight, and I will show you _no mercy!_ "

The result is unanimous. Every Lannister, Tarly, and Gold Cloak let go of their weapons—and the sound of twenty thousand swords clattering down the stairs fills the air. _"Bend the knee before your new Queen!"_ Tyrion yells at them, and they all do so, gawking down at their own feet. Dany's army roars with triumph, pumping their weapons up and down. Theon grins and locks eyes with Yara, unable to believe it. _"We won!"_ she cries, wrapping one arm around his shoulder and giving his head a good knuckling. Theon can't help but laugh and join in on the celebration... Until he sees Ramsay Bolton himself stride out from the crowd of Lannisters, wearing Lannister armor even, yet his face is unmistakable. Theon freezes, and the crowd's booming cheers fall away. Ramsay grins maliciously at him, beckoning Theon to come for him. _"It's alright, Reek. I'm not going to hurt you. Come here."_

Drogon suddenly turns his head to face the giant, metal doors to the Red Keep, growling. Daenerys and Tyrion both witness The Mountain himself quietly approaching them with his bloody greatsword held in both hands. _"Stand down, Clegane!"_ Tyrion orders him, suspicious as to why Cersei had kept her strongest soldier hiding in the Red Keep throughout the fight. If the Mountain understands him, he gives no sign of it, continuing to stride toward the black dragon without fear. As he lifts up his bloodied greatsword, Drogon doesn't hesitate. His head juts forth and picks The Mountain up in his jaws, his teeth sinking through the gold plate armor with a sickening _crunch!_ The greatsword goes flying as Drogon shakes the Mountain back and forth like a hound playing with his favorite toy before releasing the golden giant—his body soaring over the crowd of Lannisters before smashing into the side of a house down below the stairway.

"He should have listened." Dany smirks as Drogon turns his serpentine eyes back on the doors to the Red Keep. Before he can blow them down, however, there's an uproar in the crowd that catches Dany's attention.

Theon Greyjoy has plunged his sword through one of the unarmed Lannister soldiers, who falls with a bewildered look on his face, the blade still sticking out of his belly. Yara gapes at her brother as the Lannisters roar in protest, the ones closest to the abrupt stabbing pick up their weapons again. Theon just glares, twitching, down at the man he killed, his face no longer resembling anything like Ramsay's...

 _Theon!"_ Yara cries, grabbing his shoulder and tugging him away from the Lannisters, but Theon just looks at her and shouts, _"Reek! I'M REEK! NOT THEON! REEK—"_

* * *

Jorah and his Unsullied are guided by the old Alchemist up a flight of stone stairs then down a long, winding tunnel lined with empty racks where more wildfire was once stored. A growing sense of unease fills the pit of his stomach— _if I don't hurry, I might be too late, and Dany could lose everything_. "How much longer?" he asks the Alchemist with a growl.

"Almost there…" The alchemist murmurs nervously, opening an iron door for them to enter. "Right through here…"

The vast chamber they enter has a stark difference to the catacombs behind them; the ceiling is shrouded in darkness making it hard to tell just how high it truly is, and the walls curved inward, giving the room a circular shape. In the center, stacked on top of each other, is a mountain of barrels leaking green fluid and forming a puddle around its base. There's hundreds of them stacked higher than he can see, extending up into the darkness… Jorah turns to the Alchemist and grabs him around the throat with his cracked and pulsating hand, and in his anger, it burns his flesh. The old man whimpers and struggles in anguish, _"P-P-Please d-d-don't kill me!"_

"How many barrels are here?"

"F-Five hundred, Ser…"

 _Gods…_ "Where are we right now?"

"B-Beneath the Red Keep, Ser."

"What?" Jorah blinks, releasing him slowly. "Why would Cersei stockpile all of the wildfire underneath her own castle?"

"I-I don't know, _Ser!_ She doesn't tell me _anything!_ All I know is the Hand of the Queen came to see me not long ago and had his little birds carry all of them _here!_ "

Then Jorah understands, and is tempted to slay the man just for being involved in the wildfire's creation… "It's a precaution… a way of ensuring nobody ever takes the throne from her…" Jorah scans all the barrels, ordering the Unsullied to spread out and surround them. _"We can't let anyone enter this room!"_ Jorah commands before rounding again on the alchemist. "How was she planning to ignite all of this? Someone would have to sacrifice their lives to—"

"I suspect more than one of those children were brainwashed…" The alchemist says with a nervous smile. "Perhaps one of them is hiding around here somewhere?"

As the words leave the old man's lips, a door behind them opens with a rickety creak and a young boy enters holding a lit torch in his hands, accompanied by none other than Randyll Tarly. Jorah immediately swoops down as the boy tries to run for the barrels. Lord Tarly gasps at the sight of them, clearly not expecting to find Jorah or Unsullied within, and draws his sword. With his normal arm, Jorah catches the child by his midriff and with his other hand snatches the torch out of his grasp, holding it up out of reach. _"Let me go!"_ The boy screams, _"I have to do it! I have to!"_

The alchemist screams when Randyll shoves him aside, cutting down one of the Unsullied who tries to grab him. The old man swings his blade down over Jorah's extended, left arm—the one holding the torch. Expecting the blade to cut straight through, Jorah seizes up—but the blade bounces off his arm as though striking stone, and Jorah doesn't even feel it. _"What the fuck!?"_ Lord Tarly exclaims, clearly disturbed by this. Jorah throws the kid aside, drawing his own sword from its sheath with his right hand, still clutching the torch in his left, he squares off against Randyll Tarly, warning the other Unsullied not to interfere. Randyll charges, and their blades clash. Jorah recalls tales of the Great Lord of House Tarly and his reputation on the battlefield, but he's old—older than Jorah even, so he can predict his attacks.

What Jorah doesn't predict is for one of the flames flickering on the torch to crawl down his hand as if it's covered in oil—attracted to the pulsating, fiery cracks; the flames envelope his entire arm in the blink of an eye—and Jorah hears a voice inside the flames whisper to him and him alone… _Burn them all._

The flames on the end of the torch grows three times in size, warming the hairs on his head. _What's going on?!_ Jorah throws the torch against the wall, but the fire continues to spread up to his shoulder. The cracks along his arm peel apart, billowing fresh smoke, blinding both Jorah and Randyll from each-other. The Unsullied rush over to help him as Jorah cries and drops to his knees, sword forgotten, gripping his hand which is now burning with unbridled flames. The Alchemist backs away in horror, fleeing out of the room. One of the Unsullied tries to help Jorah up, but the flames react with a mind of their own—throwing the soldier through the air and into the wall. _"Get away!"_ Jorah yells, as his arm trembles with power he can't control. The fire grows and grows, swirling around him and scorching the stone floors. _I have to get out of here! I have to—_

One of the flames release the smallest of sparks that gently sways through the air, landing in the green goo around the base of the barrels…

The last thing Jorah ever sees is a rush of brilliant green light.

* * *

" _REEK! MY NAME IS REEK! REEK! REE—"_

The ground beneath Drogon explodes in a shower of stone and green fire. Dany screams as they're pushed up into the sky, the crackling, green flames catching onto Drogon's wings, engulfing her. Every last one of the 20,000 Lannister, Tarly, and Gold Cloaks on the stairway are incinerated—disappearing behind a wall of green flames. Theon, who's standing side by side with Yara, watches as his sister melts into a skeleton before his eyes—and a split second later, he's thrown backward through the air over the sea of soldiers behind him, his face still burning hot from being so close to the eruption. Everyone's screams are silenced as the wildfire spreads out like a budding rose, cascading down every road, burning every Ironborn, Unsullied, Dothraki, Tyrell, and Martell in its path.

Tyrion's worst fears are realized as his hands slip from Dany's waist—and he falls, watching as Drogon burns and screams, spiraling through the sky half ablaze with wildfire _. I'm falling. I'm really falling!_ Tyrion tries to scream but his voice is gone—the city is rushing up to meet him. _I'm going to die!_ Tyrion closes his eyes, and imagines Shae's face smiling at him…

He feels something yank on his tunic—jerking his body upward. Tyrion blinks, his feet gliding past the rooftops beneath him. Rhaegal caught him just barely—his shirt pinned between his teeth, flying him to safety.

Meanwhile Drogon is screaming in agony unlike anything Dany has ever heard. His right wing is alight with wildfire—melting his leather skin and hardened scales, as is his tail and one of his legs. Dany can feel the intense heat brushing her skin, and is shocked to find that for once, fire could hurt her. _"Drogon! It's alright!"_ she cries as the black dragon spirals out of control into the side of a building, smashing it to smithereens. A piece of rubble knocks Dany upside the forehead as her and Drogon disappear amidst smoke and flames.

Inside the Throne Room, the explosion rocks Cersei and Arya off balance just as Widow's Wale was about to clash again with Needle. The ground behind them near the door disappears behind the green flames, rushing up from underground to swallow everything above. Half of the pillars holding up the elegant roof crumble and give way. Beams of burning wood start crashing down to the floor all around her as Arya struggles to her feet, feeling warmth from the fire brush her back. Cersei is getting back up as well, having been thrown back near the steps to her throne and landing in Dickon's brain juice. Green fire swirls all around them, overtaking the walls and ceiling, illuminating the crumbling Throne Room in a bright, green aura. _There's no escaping this._ Arya faces Cersei, who is grinning at her from across the rubble. _"It's over, Arya! We'll both die in here! None of it matters now!"_

" _It matters!"_ Arya snarls, sprinting toward her with Needle in her remaining hand. She leaps over the burning pile of rocks and lands before The Mad Queen and her throne, thrusting her skinny blade with all her might up at her face. Cersei laughs as she deflects it with Widow's Wale—but Arya doesn't stop running, colliding with the Queen head-on—sinking her teeth into her neck and ripping out a chunk of her jugular. The shriek of agony is music to her ears—Cersei slams the hilt of her sword down over Arya's head and forces her to let go. Arya whirls around and shoves Needle through the calf of her leg, squirting blood across the stairs. Cersei falls, but as she does, Widow's Wale sinks itself into Arya's right shoulder-blade, lodging itself in her bones. The two of them fall together on top of each-other, wrestling up the stairs—biting, scratching, and kicking—their swords forgotten. Arya gets on top of Cersei and plunges her only thumb into Cersei's left eye, popping it like a berry. Cersei throws Arya off of her, and the young girl grunts as she collides with the base of the Iron Throne.

The Mad Queen, Cersei Lannister, slowly rises, her neck and eye pouring blood down her dress. She reaches out, her scabbed and bleeding claws closing around Arya's throat to suffocate the life from her. Arya can't breathe. She's pinned against the sharp Iron Throne, kicking and fighting—but Cersei _has_ her. Needle is at the bottom of the stairs… "When you die, tell your father Cersei Lannister sends her regards." Cersei breathes in her face as Arya's vision darkens…

Arya relaxes against the pressure around her throat, becoming No One. No One reaches up and removes Widow's Wale from her shoulder, pulling it out by the blade, slicing open her fingers. Cersei sees what she's doing and smacks the sword out of her grasp—but in doing so—is forced to let go of No One's neck with one of her hands—giving No One the opportunity she needed to thrust her forehead into Cersei's face, breaking her nose against her skull. Cersei roars in anguish, releasing No One and falling backward—tripping down the stairs, landing on her ass. No One reaches for Widow's Wale once more and with a wolfish snarl, leaps over Cersei—

The wildfire has created a green and black mushroom-cloud high up in the sky above King's Landing—and the Red Keep is completely consumed by it. Every red tower crumbles down into Blackwater Bay. The flames spread as though spurred on by magic, catching everything in the castle's vicinity. Tyrion watches it all from Rhaegal's clenched jaws, scanning the destruction in disbelief. _How could this happen… All of those people… wiped out in the blink of an eye…_

" _Rhaegal!"_ Tyrion cries in a strained voice, _"Find your mother!"_ He points down to where he'd seen Drogon crash. The green dragon obeys Tyrion's command, as does Viserion, who is flying close by. The two descend upon the crash site and Tyrion is lowered to his feet. Thousands of people run down the streets away from the growing wildfire, but not Tyrion. He climbs the rubble, tossing rocks away. Drogon is there… half of his body burned to bone. The wildfire has stopped burning from all the dirt and dust in the air. Drogon's breathing is rapid, and as Tyrion climbs closer to his head, the dragon's eye opens half-way and stares weakly up at the Dwarf. Tyrion's heart plummets, stroking the dragon's cheek and whispering, "You'll be alright, just hang on, Drogon…"

Viserion and Rhaegal start to cry, prodding at Drogon's body with their snouts. _I can't find her! Please don't be dead! Don't be dead!_ Tyrion begins to throws rocks out of his way, digging through the debris until his fingers bleed. Drogon manages to lift his uninjured wing—and curled up inside lays Daenerys like a child. She's covered in bruises, ash, and blood, but otherwise unburnt, miraculously… Whether she's dead or unconscious, Tyrion can't tell at first. He rushes to her and lifts up her wrist gently... _There's a pulse!_ Tyrion grins with relief, wiping the tears out of his eyes. " _Daenerys!_ Wake up! Dany, please! _You have to wake up now!_ " He lightly smacks her cheek until Dany's eyes flutter open.

"What… what happened?" she mutters groggily, sitting up.

" _Wildfire."_ Tyrion grimaces. _Jorah failed. We took our victory for granted. I assumed he'd completed the task… But Cersei was more desperate than even I expected… to keep it all under the castle… I should've seen this coming._ He glares up at the Red Keep, burning with green flames in the distance. "She destroyed her castle just to see us fail… she must still be in there, burning with the rest of them…"

" _Drogon!"_ Dany moans, rushing to her dragon's face and kneeling down in the rubble beside him. Drogon utters a weak whimper, his eyes slowly shutting… Daenerys goes pale as silent tears stain her dirt-smeared cheeks.

Tyrion approaches her and places a hand on her shoulder… "He's gone… _Dany,_ _I'm so sorry_ …"

" _No… He can't be…"_ Dany's lip trembles. _"Not my Drogon…"_

Viserion and Rhaegal turn their heads upward and their screams pierce the sky. Both dragons outstretch their wings and before Dany or Tyrion can do anything—they take flight, soaring high over the destruction of King's Landing. They turn their sights upon the remaining survivors fleeing in the streets—and release their anguish and pain upon them, burning everyone alive with red and orange flames. It doesn't matter who they are, the dragons show no discrimination. Men, women, children, soldiers, peasants—all point to the sky in terror as the dragons fly over them, breathing fire. Daenerys hardly seems to notice, or care, bent over Drogon and weeping… Tyrion can only stand by helplessly, watching the chaos unfold before his eyes…

"Daenerys… _you have to pull yourself together!_ " Tyrion says to her, gulping, "Your dragons— _they're killing everyone!_ You're the _only one_ who can _stop them_! Do you hear me? Please, Daenerys…"

Daenerys sniffs, brushing her eyes with her wrist. Tyrion helps her stand, but she has trouble taking her hands away from Drogon's still face. Eventually she parts from him, Viserion and Rhaegal's tortured howls bringing back a determined, grim look on her face. They climb out of the ruined house they crashed through and onto the street—full of burning bodies. Dany looks up to the skies and shouts, _"Rhaegal! Viserion! To me!"_

The two dragons hear her call and together land on either side of their mother—screaming in her face. Tyrion winces in fear, afraid they'd forgotten all about him—but Dany simply walks up to them and caresses each of their jaws, sadly whispering, "It's alright, _my darlings_ … I'm still here…"

They climb aboard Rhaegal and the two dragons fly to the crumbling, burning, smoking Red Keep. "We can't stay here. It's over, Dany… King's Landing, and The Iron Throne, are lost…"

"No…" Dany growls, "It's not over until I see The Mad Queen dead with _my own eyes_."

They soar toward the wildfire and both Viserion and Rhaegal stop in mid-air, flapping their massive wings—blowing powerful gusts of wind at the fire blocking the doors to the Throne Room. The wildfire disperses under the pressure—and the doors deteriorate, giving way to the giant room within. _"We can't go in there! It's too dangerous_!" Tyrion protests, but this time Dany doesn't heed her Hand's advice. Rhaegal and Viserion crash through the ruined castle and land inside, surrounded by green flames.

To both Dany and Tyrion's surprise, a high-pitched laughter greets them. Up ahead, the Iron Throne is one of the only things in the room untouched by the destruction—pillars of wildfire swirling around it. Casually sitting on the throne is a young girl covered in blood, her head tilted back laughing with mad delight—tears streaming down her cheeks. One of her hands is gone, replaced with a gushing, red stump. In the other, suspended in her grasp, hangs the disembodied head of Cersei Lannister.


	96. Littlefinger

Littlefinger

Petyr Baelish observes the features of his face in his mirror, his narrow eyes glinting. The silver brooch of the mockingbird is pinned to the center of his chest, catching the black cloak over his shoulders. He picks up trimmers from his desk drawer and lightly prunes just a few hairs from his mustache and beard that were getting too long. He then draws scissors and snips only a single hair from behind his ear. Finally, he lowers his fingers under the fountain and scrubs his nails clean with soap and water. He does so with meticulous care, drying them off with a flick of his wrists into a bucket beneath the desk he sat at.

Once finished, Petyr Baelish stands and turns to look down at his empty bed where a single letter lays open. A messenger had woken him that morning. Baelish questioned the courier briefly to make sure he hadn't taken a peek inside the contents of this letter. Luckily the man was a dolt and Baelish doubts he had the sense or curiosity to care what some Lord from the Vale had in his letters. Nevertheless, Baelish takes note of the man's grizzly, pocket-marked face and even asked him his name. _Boyle_ , the man had answered, _the son of a stable-master_.

Now that Sansa's Queen of the North, she can essentially do as she likes, including having Winterfell's couriers read _his_ letters. Petyr pays the son of the stable-master more gold dragons than he'd seen in his life, and thanked him for his discretion. The courier seemed baffled by this and left with happy tears in his eyes. Once Baelish perused the letter, he was delighted there was hardly anything incriminating written inside. The sender of the letter hadn't signed their name, as Baelish had instructed. All that's written are two single sentences: _The Dragon has reached the capital. I will sail north to where we discussed within the next fortnight._

Petyr Baelish burns the letter with a match and opens his tower window, tossing the flaming paper out into the whistling winds and endless snowfall where it floats for a moment before dissolving into ash. The skies are black as night, even though it is only midday. It's not Petyr's first winter, but it is the first time he's seen it stay this dark outside for so long. Some call it _the Long Night_ , Petyr prefers to believe it's merely nature running its course.

Later that day, Petyr meets with Robyn Arryn and convinces him to join him in the Grey Hall with their Queen. Robyn is upset by the lack of dead giants to entertain himself with. "Jon Snow had the giant burned against my knowledge, _my boy_." Baelish told him with a sly smirk. Robyn scowls and storms into the Grey Hall with him in a foul mood.

Sansa was already seated at the center of the table where the king once sat. Petyr bows before her while Robyn just strolls up to the table without courtesy and shoves his chair back loudly before plopping himself down in it. Sansa and the other Northern Lords are unimpressed. Baelish only chuckles and takes his seat at Sansa's side. He says to her, "It would appear I'm late for the council meeting. _My apologies,_ Your Grace."

"You're just in time." grunts Lord Glover with a frown. "We were just discussing our march southward."

"Is that so?" Baelish looks sideways at Sansa. Her expression is confident and full of pride, a small smile forming on her lips. She's dressed in a black and white dress, a wolf pelt wrapped around her neck for warmth as her red hair flows beautifully down her back.

Sansa says, "We have waited long enough. Any longer and we risk being unable to travel through the dark and snow."

"Agreed." Baelish nods, "However, it begs the questions of who will stay behind to rule in Winterfell while _we_ invade the south?"

Sansa glances at him and he can tell she hadn't thought of that. "There must always be a Stark in Winterfell…" mutters Lord Manderly with a frown.

"An old tradition long broken when the Boltons took Winterfell for their own." Sansa says, her eyebrows furrowing. "I will be leading our armies south to King's Landing as we've already discussed. I need all of you with me. I can't afford to leave anyone here."

"But… _Your Grace_ …" Lord Glover shakes his head, "What about _the commonfolk_? Without someone to rule the North while we're gone, how will any of them survive the winter?"

"And who will be here to defend Winterfell while we're gone?" Lord Cerwyn asks.

"Robb Stark left Winterfell with only a young boy in charge and hardly any men to defend the castle. It's why the Greyjoys were able to take it so easily with only twenty men. Last I heard, there's an army of Ironborn led by Euron Greyjoy invading The Neck… History has a way of repeating itself." Petyr Baelish reminds them all.

"What are you suggesting?" Sansa asks him.

"Stay in Winterfell. Rule the North. Elect someone to lead your armies in your name, bearing your sigil."

An uneasy silence follows his suggestion. Sansa casts Petyr a suspicious look that he only returns with an innocent smirk. She says, "Winterfell may be my home, but this is _my_ war. I need to be there when—"

"Forgive me, Your Grace…" Lord Glover interrupts with a grim look, "But have you ever led an army into battle?"

Sansa's cheeks turn a slight shade of pink. "No." She says, "But if it's not for me, none of us would be sitting here right now. I asked for the Knights of the Vale for help and they came."

Petyr raises an eyebrow as several of the other Lords all glance at each other with worried looks. Robyn Arryn, to everyone's shock, blurts out, " _Liar! I'm the Lord of the Vale!_ They're _my_ knights! Not _yours_!"

Sansa shoots him a foul glare and Petyr can tell this little outburst could cost Robyn if he didn't interject. Petyr laughs, clapping Robyn on the shoulder. "Forgive Lord Arryn, he hasn't broken his fast yet. I'm sure there's no doubt in anyone's mind that the Vale deserves credit for your victory, Your Grace, just as much as you do."

Lord Glover shakes his head again as Sansa Stark says, "I wish to hear no more of this. You all elected me your Queen. I expect each of you to follow my commands. I may not be experienced in battle but I do know King's Landing and I know Cersei Lannister."

"This is a mistake." Lord Glover growls, "We can't leave the north undefended."

"We won't." Sansa says. "Call back all of the men you sent to defend The Wall. Have them defend Winterfell instead." There are several gasps around the table from the Northern Lords. Petyr finds it hard to hide his smile and rests his elbow up on the table to cover his mouth with his hand.

"Your Grace, all together we could only afford to send less than a hundred men to The Wall!" Lord Glover cries.

"Not true." Petyr says. "Lord Robyn sent five thousand knights of the Vale as well."

"So you say." Lord Glover scowls at him.

" _Are you calling my father a liar!?"_ Lord Robyn asks, standing up from his seat in anger. "I gave the order _myself!_ Bring them back, _I don't care!_ I never wanted them there _anyway!_ "

"It still leaves the North without a ruler, Your Grace." Lord Manderly says cautiously.

Sansa appears uncertain about what to do. Baelish watches her out of the corner of his eye, waiting for her. She looks up and says, "Then one of you will remain in my place and rule while I'm gone. I trust each of you with this task, all I ask is for a volunteer." He notices she doesn't look at him when she says this.

Lord Glover finally has enough. Suddenly he's on his feet and shouting, " _This was a mistake!_ Jon Snow might've lied to us but he never would've left the north without a Stark in Winterfell!"

"That's enough." Sansa commands, her tone implying displeasure. "I will hear no more of my cousin or what he would do. I am the _Queen_ now! You elected me, Lord Glover. Nobody forced you."

"Aye. I did. I wish I hadn't." Lord Glover spits, "You don't even know what you're doing. You're a little girl playing at Queen."

"Do you like your head where it's at, Lord Glover?" Sansa asks him calmly. Lord Glover blinks back at her and she doesn't wait for a response, "If you do I suggest you sit back down and watch your words more carefully."

Petyr hopes Lord Glover would remain defiant to serve his amusement, yet Lord Glover slowly sits back down, his face scrunched up in anger.

"Your Grace," Baelish says, lowering his hand from his mouth. "As much as I hate to admit it, the other Lords have a point. It would serve the North better if you remained here and ruled. You would be _safe_ here as well, which is truly my biggest concern—even more so than the welfare of the smallfolk. Allow Lord Arryn to lead your armies into battle. The Vale commands the largest of our forces anyway. Lord Arryn needs the experience, and with my help, and the wisdom of our fellow Lords, I am positive we will succeed in your endeavor."

Sansa looks at him for the first time in the eye and he can tell what she's thinking. _This isn't what we agreed on that night we spent together. She must be wondering why I'm siding against her now_. Lord Manderly and Cerwyn laugh at his notion and Baelish frowns at them. "You expect us to follow this green boy into combat? Rumor has it he cannot even swing a sword properly." says the fat, bearded Lord Manderly.

" _I can fight!"_ Lord Arryn shouts at them, blushing. "I could take you on, _old man_!"

"Nevertheless, he is the Lord of the Vale, Lord Manderly." Petyr says quickly before an argument can break out, "With _forty-five thousand_ _strong_ riding beside him, Lord Arryn won't have any need to swing a sword."

"I've heard enough." Sansa sighs, leaning back in her chair and closing her eyes. When they open, she says, "I will consider your proposal, Lord Baelish. Regardless of my decision, the north will march south in three days. Thank you all for coming today. Council is dismissed. Lord Baelish, I'd like a word alone with you."

"Can I stay?" Robyn Arryn asks Petyr, and not Sansa, as the other three lords get up and shuffle out of the Grey Hall. "Winterfell is so boring, father. _There's no moon door!_ "

"Wait for me outside, my son." Petyr smiles, mussing up Robyn's hair. "I'll only be a minute."

When they're alone, Petyr turns and looks at Sansa with his legs crossed and his hands in his lap.

"What are you doing?" Sansa asks him angrily.

"What ever do you mean, Your Grace?"

"If you hadn't brought up the North needing a ruler none of that would have happened." Sansa says, "Don't think I didn't notice. What game are you playing at? We agreed that night that I would lead our forces into King's Landing."

"Sansa…" Petyr sighs, "My biggest concern has, and always has been, _your_ safety. If something were to happen to you I could never forgive myself. I apologize profusely for suggesting you stay—but truthfully, I want you to. When Robert marched and usurped the throne, he didn't give it to your father. He took it for himself because he knew nobody would defy him after witnessing his victories. If I lead your forces south and take King's Landing, no one will question your decision to put _me_ on the throne."

"So now you want to lead?" Sansa smirks, "What happened to Robyn Arryn leading the army?"

Baelish smiles knowingly at her and says, "We both know who _really_ rules the Vale."

She can't argue that. It was obvious that Robyn Arryn did whatever Petyr asked. "So, this is all about you becoming King?" Sansa asks.

"That, and _your safety_." Petyr answers. "The other lords are right. Without you, the North will suffer. No other can rightfully rule Winterfell in your place. Perhaps if Brandon Stark was here…"

"Bran was left in charge of Winterfell once and we ended up losing our home to the Boltons." Sansa says, a little begrudgingly, "If I stay… how can I know you won't do as you like with my army?"

"I doubt Lords Manderly, Glover, or Cerwyn would be too impressed if I betrayed your command." Baelish grins. "Without their support, not even my Knights of the Vale could stand a chance against the Lannisters."

Sansa still appears not to believe him. Petyr expects this. She says, "In three days we march… I will decide then."

Just then the doors to the Grey Hall open and one of Sansa's guards enter. "Your Grace! _Lord Reed_ has arrived and seeks your audience!"

"Lord Reed is here?" Sansa looks surprised, "Allow him in."

The old man hobbles inside on a walking stick. His skin is misshapen and deformed from Greyscale, though Sansa hides her shock well behind her Queenly mask. Howland Reed bows before them and says, " _Your Grace!_ It is an _honor_ to meet you again!"

" _Reed!"_ Petyr Baelish cries, stepping around the table and briskly striding down the hall with his arms outstretched, his grin wide. Howland Reed looks up at him with a toothy smile and the two men embrace. Petyr grips his shoulders, laughing, _"It's been too long, my friend!"_

"Same to you, _Baelish_." Howland cackles, "I saw the little lord, Robyn Arryn, on my way in. Quite the boy you have there!"

"He's a moody young man yet I can't help but love the lad." Petyr laughs, walking up toward Sansa whose Queenly mask has slipped away, revealing her surprise.

"You two _know_ each other?" she asks.

"Petyr and I have been friends since childhood, for about as long as I knew your father, actually." Howland says, playfully hitting Petyr in the shoulder. "The years have been kind to you, my friend."

"Wish I could say the same to you, Howland." Petyr jests, "I heard of your affliction but I dared not believe it true."

"Ah, yes." Howland sighs, "It's a tragedy, but you get used to it."

Both men guffaw with laughter and Petyr notices Sansa is totally beside herself with confusion. She says, "Lord Reed, my brother was sent to find you. Has he returned with you?"

"Afraid not, Your Grace." Howland says with a slanted grin, "I felt it was safer for him to stay in Greywater Watch. It is impossible to find without guidance. I've brought with me my army at your brother's command, though when I heard you'd succeeded him, I was glad to hear it."

"Why is that?"

" _Never trust a Targaryen_." Howland says, "I'd like to believe Eddard Stark would be relieved to see his trueborn daughter in charge of his home rather than some _Targaryen Bastard_."

" _Let us not speak of such trivialities!"_ Petyr declares, "Howland, I believe I owe you a drink. Shall we fill our bellies and reminisce about the old days tonight?"

"It would be my pleasure. Your Grace, you have the full support of the Crannogmen and _House Reed!_ From _this day,_ until my _last day!"_

"I owe you a great debt, Lord Reed." Sansa smiles. "Thank you for coming."

Petyr Baelish and Howland Reed exit the Grey Hall, striding out into the snow-filled courtyard under the shadow of the Long Night. When they're alone, both of their friendly smiles disappear and they face each-other with hardened expressions. "Think she bought it?" Howland asks.

"She's wiser than she looks. But yes, I think she did." Petyr replies, leaning in close and whispering, " _Is it done_?"

Howland nods grimly. "Didn't put up much of a fight. It was over in five minutes."

"Did you make sure you got them all?"

" _Oh yes."_ Howland nods. "Not a single survivor. I had every corpse checked before we set off. Even his bloody direwolf."

"Are you sure? It's imperative that you left _no witnesses_."

"Look who you're talking to, _Petyr_." Howland says, chuckling, "Trust me."

Petyr nods, though doesn't smile. "You know I trust you. I just need to be sure before we proceed."

"Have you heard back from your man across the sea?" Howland asks.

"Yes. I received a letter this morning from him. Daenerys Targaryen has reached King's Landing. The Dragon and the Lion will rip each other to pieces and when they're done, we'll soar in and clean up the mess."

"Personally I hope the Mad Queen ends the Dragon threat before we ever have to deal with it. Our army might be large, but dragons can change everything, you know that."

"I'm prepared for that, my friend." Petyr smiles, but gives no hint.

" _Does Sansa know yet?"_

"Jon Snow heard of her somehow and informed everyone of her coming. I did everything in my power to negate these claims, but I'm afraid I could not predict him finding out about it. We were lucky. It gave us a good reason to reveal his true name."

" _You?_ Lucky?" Howland scoffs. "Don't try and _fool_ me, Petyr. I _know_ you. You orchestrated this whole thing, after-all. Finding them at Moat Cailin was just as you predicted, I must thank you again for having your Knights of the Vale prepare the fortress ahead-of-time for my men, if not for them—it would've been a very uncomfortable time out there in the cold."

"Sometimes you need to gamble to get what you want." Petyr replies as the two of them cross the snowy courtyard to where Robyn Arryn is throwing snowballs at one of his knights, who just stands there and takes it. "Jon Snow was a problem we no longer need worry about. Daenerys Targaryen is our only remaining obstacle now. Did you bring the Red Woman with you?"

"Yes. She is hiding where you suggested. Do you still wish to meet her?"

Petyr smiles, hiding his true intentions from Howland, he says, " _I do,_ yes. Do you have the sword you promised?"

"She's holding onto it for now…" Howland scratches his beard, studying his friend's eyes. "Why do you want that sword, Petyr? You're no warrior."

"Someday, _maybe,_ you'll see for yourself. For now, I wouldn't concern yourself about it." Petyr claps Howland on his shoulder. "What was its name?"

"Oathkeeper, she called it."

"A _fitting_ name." Petyr smirks. "I will see the Lady Melisandre soon enough, I wish not to keep her waiting long, after-all. Sansa may or may not care about her crimes. For now, it would be best if she doesn't know of her presence here. In three days, we will march south, with or without Sansa; and if the Queen of the North decides to come with us, we may need to… _dramatically improvise_ the situation."

"Are you _sure_ she can be trusted?" Howland asks him.

"Are you truly concerned?"

"She was raised by the Lannisters and Boltons. I have every right to be concerned."

"Sansa won't be a problem." Petyr assures him with a smile. " _Trust me_."


	97. Rhaegar

Rhaegar

The final tilt was about to commence. The audience is captured in hushed anticipation. An astute observer might notice that Rhaegar Targaryen is acting strange. He climbs his white stallion with hesitation and equips himself with shield and lance like a man without hunger being served a giant meal. His opponent, Barristan Selmy, is enamored in white plating from across the line of dirt, patiently waiting for Rhaegar to approach the runway. _Maybe I should just give up now and forget about all this_ , _I could go to Summerhall and write a song and just forget about Bran Stark… Put all of this behind me._

If the ghost from the future had been real, and his prediction was true, then Rhaegar would defeat Barristan and be declared the victor. So far, he had successfully unhorsed every knight that dueled him with increasing unease. Rhaegar's good—but he hardly considers himself the greatest jouster in all of Westeros. Barristan by far was better at this and deserved to win. There's no way Rhaegar can unhorse an experienced warrior like him…

The bell rings, signaling them to start—Rhaegar and Barristan spur their horses, their lances pointing at each other's shields. Fifty feet away—then forty— _I can still stop this, I can still give up_ —thirty feet away and not one person in the stadium so much as breaths—twenty feet— _He's going to unhorse me. I could lift my lance and miss on purpose_ —ten feet away and Rhaegar can see Barristan's eyes beneath his helm—

Both shields explode as their lances smash through them—but only one connects with the rider and knocks him off his horse. The audience releases their pent-up excitement with a cacophony of applause and cheers. Aerys Targaryen rises from his seat and shouts, "The victory goes to _my_ son, Rhaegar!"

 _Unbelievable…_

Rhaegar spins his stallion about-face and jumps off his saddle, rushing over to help Barristan up. "Thank you, My Prince." Barristan says gratefully, "Well struck!"

"You should have won…" Rhaegar tells him, unable to hide the troubled tone in his voice. Even behind his helm, Rhaegar can see the concern in the old man's eyes, but before Barristan can speak a word of it, a man in crimson and gold robes descends from a podium in the stands carrying a crown of blue winter roses... He hands it to Rhaegar, simultaneously informing all in the audience that Rhaegar shall now crown a woman and declare them the Queen of love and beauty…

 _It's all going just as he told me… This… Why does this feel so wrong?_ Rhaegar frowns down at the crown in his grasp. It's light as a feather, bright blue petals glistening in the sunlight. The only place in the world these flowers grow is in Winterfell, home of the Starks… _He told me to give it to Lyanna Stark… a girl I hardly know… A girl engaged to another. I myself am married to a woman I love… We have two children… Everyone is expecting me to give this to my Elia… If I don't…_

Rhaegar looks up into the crowd and notices his father glaring down at him with his usual scowl. Rhaegar has little love for the man left in his heart. When he'd brought his children to court to introduce them to Aerys, the King only gave them the briefest of glances before dismissing them, saying, _"They smell Dornish!"_ Their relationship had been strained enough already, but since that day Rhaegar resented his father with a secret passion. _Even he expects me to hand this crown to my wife—he can't wait for me to do it so he can go and be by himself again, away from all these potential threats._

As fate would have it, Elia's sitting with their two children near the front of the stands. Rhaegar walks toward her slowly, his mind a whirl of uncertainty. Beside his family are none other than the Starks and Baratheons. Lord Rickard sits with Lord Steffon while their children sit side-by-side watching Rhaegar. Lyanna's in-between Elia and Robert, the latter being the only one in the stadium ignoring Rhaegar and just staring at Lyanna with a love-struck smile.

 _The fate of the world depends on this… That's what Bran Stark, whoever he is, told me… Was he even real? How could he be? He said he was from the future, but how can I believe that? It's ridiculous… If I told anyone, they'd call me mad… If I am, then perhaps what they say about Targaryens behind our backs is true—eventually, we all go insane… So many questions, no answers…_

Rhaegar removes his helm and shakes out his flowing, silver hair. He approaches Elia, who smiles at him, leaning her head forward in expectation…

 _Do you believe in fate?_ He'd asked Lyanna this in the forest… just before Bran appeared…

 _Fate…_

The smiles in the audience unanimously die as Rhaegar turns away from his wife and lays the crown of winter roses in the lap of Lyanna Stark. Rhaegar ignores them all, looking directly up into Lyanna's eyes. The young girl blushes the brightest shade of red possible, unable to prevent the wide grin that stretches across her face. Hers is the only reaction like this.

An uproar of shock hisses throughout the stadium. Robert Baratheon's suddenly on his feet—his face quite possibly just as red as his betrothed. _"WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS?!"_ he bellows, spit flying from his lips. Lord Steffon Baratheon stands and grabs his son's shoulders to calm him, but Robert swats him away. "This is an _OUTRAGE!_ Give the crown to your _own damn wife_!"

Rhaegar walks away, his heart hammering in his ears. _What did I just do?_ As he leaves, Robert's screams follow him out—loud and booming over the rest of the audience. Rhaegar descends the trail to the encampments outside Harrenhal, making his way to his tent to be alone and contemplate on his decision…

As he enters his tent, Rhaegar immediately goes to his golden harp and takes a seat on his bed with it. He crosses a leg over a knee and rests the harp in his lap, gently plucking its silver strings with his head bowed low and his eyes closed, absorbing its peaceful melody…

When someone touches his hand, Rhaegar is half-surprised, having not heard anyone enter his tent—and finds himself face-to-face once more with the young, ghost boy. This time Rhaegar doesn't jump or try to fight him off, he simply stares at him.

"Thank you for listening to me." Bran tells him with a smile. "Sorry if I scared you…"

"It's alright." Rhaegar says, eyeing the tent's entrance to make sure no one's standing outside. "I had a feeling you might pop up again…"

"For a second I thought you were going to give the roses to your wife."

"So did I." Rhaegar sighs, plucking at his strings while Bran's hand remains clasped over his.

"You haven't forgotten the rest I told you, right?"

"It's not every day a boy from the future appears out of thin air and tells me my unborn son will be the one to save the world." Rhaegar smiles.

"I suppose so… Do you know what you're going to do next?"

"You said I had to… abduct or convince Lyanna to come away with me…" Rhaegar frowns. "That doesn't seem like a very honorable thing to do, to be honest."

"It's not if you _abduct_ her." Bran agrees, "That's why you have to _convince_ her it's the right thing to do."

"Why don't you do it?" Rhaegar asks curiously.

"I can't risk that. I've already risked everything telling you all this."

Rhaegar frowns, gently strumming his harp. "She'll think I'm mad if I tell her everything you told me. I'm half-convinced I am going mad like my father."

"Then why did you listen to me?" Bran asks.

"Because I believe in fate." Rhaegar answers, "And if you are real and telling me the truth, then the prophecy about _the prince that was promised_ is true. I always thought my son, Aegon, was the one the Old Ghost always spoke about…"

" _The Old Ghost?"_ Bran appears confused, and Rhaegar can't help but chuckle at the irony of that.

"The Ghost of High Heart, they call her. She's an elderly woman living in the Riverlands. She was there the day I was born in Summerhall. They say she's a witch, but I've met the woman and she's no witch… but her prophecy… it's always stayed with me ever since I went to see her. I wanted to learn more about what caused the tragedy at Summerhall, but all she gave me was a prophecy about "The Prince that was Promised." In it, she described a _young dragon_ leading the fight against an ancient enemy…"

"The White Walkers." Bran whispers.

Rhaegar glares at him. "Is it true?"

"They're _real_. I've seen them." Bran says before he can catch himself. "They're the reason I'm here right now. I'm not sure how much I should tell you…"

"I understand…" Rhaegar says, "Though I can't help but be curious… if you're from the future, then tell me… am I alive in your time?"

"No…" Bran says after some hesitation.

"How do I die?"

"I don't think I should tell you that. I can't risk changing anything that's already happened."

"Yet you risked everything to get me this far?"

"No. This always happens." Bran sighs and takes a seat on the bed beside him. "It's hard to explain… I knew though that if I didn't tell you, you never would've given Lyanna the crown, right?"

Rhaegar considers this question for a while, plucking at his harp. "No… I wouldn't have. I'd have given it to Elia…"

"Then I'm right. Everything I've done is what always happens… Picture a history book. In it is your life written in ink… In my time, that history book says you give the crown to Lyanna and a short time after steal her away and…"

"And what?"

"And _rape_ her…" Bran gives him a grim look.

"Well… that's _not_ going to happen." Rhaegar says flatly.

"Which is why you have to convince her to go with you. _No matter what_. If she refuses…"

"Then that's that and I leave her alone. I won't rape her, no matter what a Stark from the future tells me."

"The fate of the world depends on you having a child with her." Bran says, appearing scared for the first time.

"So you say… I'm sorry, but I can't do that. If raping Lyanna Stark is the reason the future is saved then maybe the future doesn't deserve saving."

"But…"

"If you want to make sure this works, then come with me. Help me convince her. Show yourself to her like you have me, and together we might succeed…" Rhaegar says, "If I go alone, and I try to tell her all of this, it won't work. You know this as well as I do."

It's Bran's turn to look down, deep in thought, and consider Rhaegar's proposal. Finally, he says, "Alright… But I can't say too much. If we screw this up…"

"First, you have to tell me _one thing_." Rhaegar says, setting down his harp and looking Bran in the eye. "How are you able to travel back in time like this?"

"That would take a while to explain… How about I tell you what I can _after_ we speak with Lyanna?"

 _Figures. Well played, Bran Stark._ "Fair enough. When shall we go?"

"I'm not sure…" Bran admits, "None of the history books say when exactly you abduct Lyanna… only that it happens a short time after this tourney…"

"Fate has guided me this far. If this is what always happens, then whichever day I choose will be the day that is always chosen, correct?"

"I guess so, yeah." Bran shrugs, making Rhaegar chuckle again. _He really is just a boy._

"If we do this, and Lyanna agrees… The world will not accept this. Neither my father, not her future husband is going to sit back and allow me to bear a child with her; not to mention the Martells, who are undoubtedly furious with me already. It could start a war…" Rhaegar watches Bran's expression carefully… "You already know whether or not it does, but you can't tell me, can you?"

"Sorry." Bran grimaces.

"I suppose one war against the annihilation of all life as we know it isn't much of a debate." Rhaegar stands up, and Bran stands with him, their hands linked. "I'll go to her tomorrow, after I've made peace with Elia and my children… Don't worry, I won't say a word of this to anyone. I can't just abandon my family without saying goodbye, though…"

"What will you tell them?"

"That I love them and will cherish them for the rest of my days." Rhaegar says, and he means it. "Will you be around me this whole time or…?"

"No, but I'll find you tomorrow when you're ready." Bran says, "In the meantime, I'll just—"


	98. Bran X

Bran

"—Find something else to… do…" Bran blinks and Rhaegar disappears, as does the tent and all that resides within it. Bran is warped into a familiar forest surrounding a hill outside Harrenhal. A single tree sways in the breeze atop this hill as the sun sets over the black towers in the distance. "Rhaegar?" Bran whirls around but the Targaryen Prince is nowhere to be seen. _Why am I here? When in time is this?!_

Bran climbs to the top of the hill where he hears harsh sobbing noises coming from behind the tree. As he gets closer, Bran spots all the tents lined up outside Harrenhal's castle, and warm relief washes over him. _It's still the same day…_ He rounds the corner of the tree and finds young Howland Reed crunched up on the grassy floor, his face in his arms, hugging his shoulders and shaking with uncontrollable tears.

"Who's there?" says a voice behind Bran, making him jump in his skin. He wheels around and sees another small boy approaching Howland. _What's Petyr Baelish doing out here?_

Howland looks up, his face shining red. Petyr smiles as he stops short of him. "Ah, you're the Stark girl's… _cousin_."

"No, I'm not." Howland mutters angrily. "I'm Howland Reed, a _lowly, unimportant, piece of shit Crannogman_."

"With a title like that, I can hardly blame you for disguising yourself." Petyr jests, leaning against the tree under its shadow, both hands crossed behind his back. "Though I admit I found it suspicious. The Stark's cousins bear no resemblance to you."

"Leave me alone." Howland growls.

"My apologies… I heard a little girl crying and thought I might be of some assistance." Bran thought Howland might hit Petyr then, but the Crannogman only continues to weep, gazing down into the grass. Petyr slowly kneels beside him and says, "I could also be a friend."

"I don't need friends. I don't _deserve_ friends." Howland mutters, wiping snot from his nose onto wrist. Petyr narrows his eyes and places a hand on Howland's shoulder.

"Friends can prove to be useful. _Remedial_ even. Why don't you tell me what's got you crying out here on a hill?"

Bran has a strange feeling he's seen this happen already, somewhere…

" _You saw what happened in there!"_ Howland cries, "Rhaegar Targaryen gave Lyanna the crown of winter roses… And she _smiled_!"

"Ah…" Petyr sighs, "I see now… You're in love with Lyanna Stark."

" _Wh-What?! N-No! No, that's—"_

"There's no need to hide your affections from me, Reed. I know exactly what it's like to love someone you can't have… Trust me on that. In my opinion, though, your talents are wasted up here."

"It's not like that… she's already engaged to Robert Baratheon…"

"The oaf from Storm's End who takes whores from brothels every night, drinks himself to sleep, and hunts boar to compensate for his lack of intelligence? _Please…_ You and I and the rest of the realm all know there would be no true love between her and a man like that. _You_ on the other hand…"

"Stop… I'm just a low-born frog-eater…"

"Yet she fought for your honor in the jousts, did she not?"

Howland gapes at him. _"How did you know?"_

"I have many friends in many places... I'd like to think that you and I could be friends as well, Reed. My name's Petyr. Petyr Baelish." He reaches out to shake Howland's hand. Howland obliges, still in awe at him.

"She would never go for a man like me…"

"Don't be so sure about that. Not often does a woman get up in arms to defend the honor of a man she _doesn't_ care about." Petyr smirks. "Have you informed Lyanna of your feelings?"

"No… no way… I could never…"

"You _should_. Happiness could be a simple question away and you'd never know it…"

"Is that what _you_ did?" Howland asks, "Tell the girl you loved how you felt?"

"Aye." Petyr lifts up his shirt, revealing a long, narrow scar traveling from his belly to his collar-bone. "A gift from _her_ betrothed. Sometimes a question can lead to near death as well… But what's life without gambling? Without risk, there is no reward, my friend… I do not regret what I did, for doing nothing would've been the greatest sin of all. This scar serves as a reminder of that."

"I was going to say something…" Howland admits coyly, "I was… Or at least, I was thinking about it… but then… then that damned _Targaryen_ had to ruin _everything_!"

"What has he ruined? Did he steal her away or take her to his bedchamber? No. He gave her some flowers and everyone _lost their minds_ because it wasn't what's _expected_ of him. I admire the man for that, at least, and so should you. It should inspire you to get up off your ass and do something about it or else someone like Rhaegar or Robert will do it for you."

"You're right…" Howland says, and Petyr helps him to his feet. "I'm going to tell her… I'm going to _tell her_ … Thank you, Petyr Baelish."

"Please, call me Petyr."

Bran can't believe it. _Howland loved Lyanna this whole time? If that's true, then he must not have met his future wife yet… I wonder if Meera or Jojen ever knew about this…_

Once again, the world around him dissolves before Bran is prepared and he is taken far away from Harrenhal. A massive inn stands before him now as heavy, night rains wash over the crossroads. Bran can't feel it, thankfully. The rain passes through him as if he's made of mist. _Now where am I? Why am I here? Most importantly… when is this?_

About a hundred horses are in the stables being handled by a heavy-set horse master. The banner of House Stark hangs over several of their saddles. Bran enters the inn, searching for his family. The ceiling groans overhead. No one save a few Stark guards are in here, drinking and chatting under their breaths. _Everyone else must be asleep upstairs…_

Bran creeps his way up the staircase, passing through doors like a ghost on his way down the hall. He finds Rickard Stark sleeping alone in one room. Then he found Eddard, Brandon, and Benjen all snoring loudly in another. _Lyanna must be here…_ As Bran debates entering the next room, he hears the doors to the inn down below clang open. Bran goes back to see who's there, and finds none other than Rhaegar Targaryen. He is alone, wearing a black traveling cloak with its hood pulled up to hide his face in shadow—but Bran recognizes him at once. The Stark guards, on the other hands, are drunk and pay the stranger no mind. Rhaegar asks for a room from the innkeeper and is given the keys to one. As he ascends the staircase, Bran reaches out and touches his hand.

Rhaegar's eyes flicker to him at once, but he doesn't smile. He waits until they are out of earshot from downstairs before addressing him. "If you didn't show up soon I was going to turn around."

"Sorry. I'm here." Bran says, "It's so weird, it feels like I was just talking to you a few minutes ago."

"Really? That was two days ago…"

"Are you ready to do this?"

"No. But I'm here. Had to trail behind them for a while so they wouldn't see me coming… They wouldn't stop traveling, even in the night. You Starks don't tire easily."

"She should be alone in one of these rooms…" Bran says, leading him by the hand over to the door he had stopped at before. "I'll peek in and make sure it's the right one."

"How are you going to—?" Rhaegar stops short when Bran sticks his head directly through the door as if it's a veil. The room is cast in shadows, too dark to see at first. _The bed isn't empty…_ After his eyes adjust, Bran makes out two lumps lying under the covers… _Oh no…_

When Bran pulls back, he gives Rhaegar a disparaging look. "What's wrong?" Rhaegar asks, alarmed.

"She's not alone…" Bran mutters.

"Is Robert with her? No… That's not possible, he wasn't traveling with them…"

"No… not Robert."

"Who? No, wait, don't tell me… it's none of my concern." Rhaegar sighs. "Maybe this was a mistake… I must be insane to go this far… How do I know you're even real?"

"You really want to second-guess me _now_?" Bran asks angrily, "Look, this is just a… a minor set-back. We can't stop. We have to do this…"

"What about the man she's with?"

"Tie him up… Gag him so he doesn't make any noise…" Bran suggests, feeling sick.

"The more you talk, the more convinced I am that I'm losing my mind."

"We don't have many options here. This is the only chance we have! Once she's back in Winterfell there's no way you'll be able to get her to leave without anyone noticing. Rhaegar… You have to trust me. I've been right about everything else. What happens next is what always happens, understand? If you believe in fate like you say you do, then—"

"Alright, alright." Rhaegar glances nervously over his shoulder. He takes off his cloak and tears the hood from it, tying it up in a tight ball. "I suppose you won't be able to help me with this, will you…"

"No, but I can keep Lyanna from going crazy and alerting everyone else…" Bran says. _Hopefully._

"I won't see you once you let go…" Rhaegar says, though it sounds like a question.

Bran nods. "Once you're done, I'll grab your hand again so you and Lyanna can both see me."

"And the man with her won't?"

"No… He won't hear me either. Just the two of you…"

"Alright…" Rhaegar takes a deep breath, his hand around the doorknob. "I'm ready…"

The door is locked. Rhaegar frowns and looks to Bran who only shrugs. "Don't look at me, I can't open it."

"You can touch me though, why can't you touch the door?"

"I don't know. It doesn't work that way…"

"Well… I can't open it either." Rhaegar sighs, scratching his head. "Perhaps this is fate telling us not to do this."

"No." Bran growls, "We've come too far. If you don't go in there…"

"I know, I know…"

"Then force it open."

"It will wake them up."

"Well that's the plan, right?"

"This is folly." Rhaegar grumbles. "If everyone hears then I won't be able to—"

There's a click from behind the door before it suddenly opens on its own. Howland Reed is standing before them half-naked save for briefs, groggily rubbing his eyes as he comes face to face with Rhaegar Targaryen. There's an awkward silence as the two stare at one-another and Bran almost forgets that he can't be seen.

The Crannogman opens his mouth—and Rhaegar grabs him. He shoves the rolled-up bundle of his hood into Howland's open lips—blocking a muffled cry from the young man's throat. Bran is released from the white-haired prince as Rhaegar forces Howland backward into the room and onto the floor with a dull _thud!_ "I'm sorry." Rhaegar whispers, rolling Howland over and hog-tying his cloak around his wrists and ankles. Howland's terrified screams are louder than Bran anticipates. Frightened, bound, and pinned to the ground, Howland Reed sobs for his life. In the bed behind them, Lyanna rolls over in her sleep, frowning as though from a nightmare. Bran rushes to her bedside, but doesn't touch her. Instead he watches as Rhaegar drags Howland into the closet and tenderly closes the doors, locking him within the darkness. His muffled cries for help can still be heard, but it's not enough to wake Lyanna.

 _I guess she's a deep sleeper._ Bran eyes Rhaegar who closes and locks the bedroom door before joining him at the end of the bed, panting. He takes Rhaegar's hand in his. "You can do this…"

Rhaegar has never looked more insecure than he does right now. Bran can tell he's considering leaving this all behind and forgetting it… So he's grateful when Rhaegar reaches over and gives Lyanna a gentle shake.


	99. Lyanna

Lyanna

She's sprinting through a field of snow, the taste of blood on her tongue. A rabbit hops away from her as fast as its hind legs will allow—but not fast enough to escape her mighty jaws. She pins the animal into the mud and tears off its head with a sickening crackle. The bones crunch like rocks against her teeth. Lyanna savors the taste, relishing in its salty warmth. Bowing her head to finish eating the rabbit's carcass, something shakes her from her dream.

" _Quit it_ , Howland." she mutters but the hand on her shoulder doesn't let up. Grumbling in annoyance, Lyanna opens her eyes and rolls over, expecting Howland Reed to be lying beside her. Instead it's Rhaegar Targaryen leaning over her, wide-eyed, his face slick with sweat.

Instinct lifts Lyanna's fist up—colliding with the underside of Rhaegar's jaw. The white-haired Prince stumbles backward, grunting in pain. Lyanna whirls about on the bedsheets, about to scream—

" _Wait! Wait!"_ Rhaegar urges, reaching out and shoving his hand over her lips—so she bites down hard on his fingers, forcing a howl out of him.

"What in the _seven hells_ are you doing in _my room!?_ " Lyanna asks loudly. That's when she hears the muffled cries from her closet. " _Howland!?_ Is that you?"

Rhaegar shoves her down, pinning her to her pillows. She's naked and exposed, yet Rhaegar's eyes refuse to look past Lyanna's face. _"You have to be quiet_." he hisses, "Please, just hear me out."

Lyanna growls, "Give me one bloody reason why I shouldn't call for my father."

Appearing beside Rhaegar while touching Lyanna's hand, a young boy abruptly pops into existence before her eyes. Her mouth drops. " _Please_ tell me you can see him?" Rhaegar asks, sounding painfully desperate.

"You mean the little boy grabbing my hand?" Lyanna snarls, jerking her hand away. The boy disappears as quickly as he appeared—so quick she's convinced he was never there at all. Then the boy takes her hand again, more forcefully this time, snapping back into reality beside her. _I'm going mad!_

"I'm sorry to do this, Lyanna, but you'll understand in a minute…" The boy says to her.

"You'll have to show me that trick kid— _you guys mind backing the fuck off for a minute so I can at least cover my tits?"_

"You won't scream?"

"Not if you let go."

Rhaegar releases her slowly and backs away, sitting down on the end of her bed. He eyes the bedroom door, waiting to see if anyone was coming… after a few moments of silence, he turns his attention back on Lyanna (who has covered herself under her sheets). "How do I even start?" He asks, eyeing the strange vanishing boy for direction.

"How about you tell me why you locked Howland in the closet?"

"I didn't want to…" Rhaegar mumbles, "We didn't expect him to be here."

 _But you expected me here?_ "This is really strange, Rhaegar… "

"Lyanna, listen to the kid for a minute, alright? He has something to say…"

The boy glares at Rhaegar before looking at her sheepishly, "Lyanna, my name is Brandon Stark."

 _Now I know this is a joke._ "Uh… you're not my _older brother_ , nice try."

"Obviously." Bran smiles. "This is going to sound insane… but I'm from the future."

If not for Howland's anguished moans from the closet, Lyanna might have laughed out loud at this, and the serious, stern expressions on both of their faces tell her this was no jest. "What the _fuck_ are you on about?"

"I'm your brother's son." Bran says impatiently, "I—I don't know how to explain all of this to you exactly, but you must believe me. I wouldn't be here doing this if it wasn't important. Neither would Rhaegar."

Lyanna raises her eyebrow at the Targaryen Prince. "You believe this kid?"

"I didn't truly until now." Rhaegar admits, "But you can see him too."

Lyanna glares at Bran this time. "Do that thing again."

"What?"

"Go invisible! I want to see it again—well, not _see it_ , you know what I mean."

Bran rolls his eyes and lets go of her hand. Just like that, he vanishes… a second later he reappears, holding her hand again.

 _Whoa…_ "Alright, you have my attention. But I'm letting Howland out of the cupboard."

"I'm afraid I cannot allow that." Rhaegar says sadly.

Lyanna stands from her bed. "You going to stop me?"

"He's already seen and heard too much." Rhaegar says, "Come with us to my room. We can speak privately there. I promise you, on my honor as a Targaryen, that is _all_ we will do."

Lyanna scoffs. "Fine. I'll admit this drama has got me curious…" She turns to the cupboard where Howland's moans have stopped to listen to them. "I'll be right back, Howland." she calls, moving to her nightstand to dress herself in a grey, silk gown. She follows Rhaegar and the boy, who is holding both of their hands, connecting them. Rhaegar's room was at the very end of the hall.

Once inside, they each take a seat across from each other, Bran in the middle, on Rhaegar's bed. Lyanna wants to see the vanishing trick again, but instead Bran tells her about the future. Lyanna listens in silence as she learns about why they're here. Rhaegar was quiet as well, his purple gaze lingering on Lyanna's face as Bran explains how the two of them are meant to run away together and create a child.

"What's his name?" Lyanna asks.

"I can't tell you that." Bran says.

"Why not?"

"Because we might change it if we know." Rhaegar says, smirking.

"So… if we're supposed to run away together… then, at the tourney, when you gave me the crown of winter roses…"

"Yes." Rhaegar nods grimly.

 _And here I thought he just found me to be the most beautiful woman in the world._ "You really believe all of this, Rhaegar?"

Rhaegar glances at Bran before answering, "I believe he isn't _lying_. Everything he's predicted has come true so far. It would foolish of me to ignore this warning when it could potentially save the world."

Lyanna barks with laughter, unable to stifle it any longer. Tears sting her eyes as she slowly stands up, but Bran doesn't let go of her hand. "I'm sorry but this is just _stupid_. You seriously expect me to believe that I'm supposed to have a child with you?! A child that somehow is supposed to save the world from _White Walkers_?! This is desperate, Rhaegar. If you wanted into my pants this badly you missed your chance back at Harrenhal."

Bran throws caution to the wind and says, "Your son's name will be _Jon Snow_. He will grow up a bastard in Winterfell, and the world will believe he is the illegitimate son of your brother—my father—Eddard Stark. He will join the Night's Watch and become Lord Commander, defending The Wall from wildlings and the White Walkers. Eventually he will grow up to be the King of the North… and both of you will die before any of this, never knowing your son."

Silence follows this revelation, and the way Bran speaks gives her trepidation… _He's telling me the truth._ "If that's supposed to convince me…"

"You'll die in child birth. Eddard will be there with you." Bran continues morosely, never taking her eyes off her. "He'll take care of Jon and raise him as his own. To me, Jon is my older brother, when in reality, he is my cousin…"

"You're… you're _Ned's_ son?" For the first time Lyanna believes him against her own will. _They do look so much alike…_

"I'm sorry, I wish I didn't have to tell you this but I don't know how else to convince you." Bran sighs. "The world will think Rhaegar abducted you and stole you away to the south. They'll think he raped you until you bled to death. No one will know what you've done, no one will know you ever had a child. Only my father will know the truth…"

"So, you're asking us to die…" Lyanna glares at Rhaegar. "Did you know this?"

" _Yes…"_ Rhaegar answers deliberately. "If our sacrifices would save the world, then I'm more than willing to give up my life. If you're not able to do that then… I guess we wasted our time here. We're not going to force you to do this, Lyanna. It's _your_ choice."

"What about all that _fate_ crap you were spewing on about? If this is what always happens, then you should already know what I'm going to say…"

"I was wrong about fate. We all have to make choices and those choices dictate how fate works. I could've lost the joust on purpose, I could've quit, I could've walked away and pretended Bran Stark never appeared before me, I could've given the crown to my wife like everyone expected… But I didn't. I made those choices, and as fate would have it, I'm now sitting beside you. Whatever you decide will be what you always decide—for better or for worse, the decision rests on you now and you alone. I don't expect you to love me, but if you come away with me, then you must be prepared to sacrifice your life for the greater good…"

Against her will, Lyanna starts to cry quiet tears. She looks to Bran and says, "Can you tell me more about him, _my son?_ What's he like? What color is his hair? Is he funny? Is he a great fighter? _Does he ever fall in love?_ "

"I'm sorry but I can't tell you anything else unless you agree." Bran says.

Lyanna sniffs, wiping her eyes. Rhaegar hands her a clean, dry cloth from his pocket and she thanks him, cleaning her face off with it. "This is just so… I can't believe this is _happening_ … How do I know you're really from the future and not just performing some trick?"

Bran chuckles at that. "I can't really _prove_ I'm from the future. All I can tell you is what I know and what you need to know in order for _my_ future to exist. If you don't do this, Jon never exists… everything changes… I myself might never be born. I could disappear in the blink of an eye for all I know… The future as I know it rests entirely on what you do, Auntie." The last word slips out of him before he can catch it.

"I suppose if you're telling the truth then I really am your aunt, huh…" Lyanna smiles, new tears welling up in her eyes. She leans forward and touches Bran's cheek, but her fingers passes through him as though he's made of smoke. " _Amazing…_ How are you able to come back in time like this?"

"The short answer is, I learned how from an old man beyond The Wall. The Children of the Forest called him the Three-Eyed Raven… He died at the hands of the Night King, and now _I'm_ the Three-Eyed Raven."

 _He isn't lying… Neither is Rhaegar… They really do believe what they're telling me…_

"Can I at least say _goodbye_ to my brothers?" Lyanna asks weakly.

"No…" Bran appears apologetic as he says this, "They must believe you were abducted in the night. Everyone must... Are you saying… you'll do this?"

"Maybe." Lyanna looks at Rhaegar, studying his face. He truly is beautiful, and she'd be lying if she said she hadn't fantasized about him after he gave her the crown of winter roses, even while she was with Howland. _But to sleep with him…_ _Having a baby was always the last thing I ever wanted…_

Rhaegar reaches out with the hand that wasn't attached to Bran's and takes Lyanna's fingers in his grasp. He smiles, and she sees that he's crying as well. "I had to say goodbye to _my wife_ and _two children_ yesterday. It was the hardest thing I've ever had to do. I couldn't tell them where I was going or why, I could only clutch them in my arms and promise them that I loved them. Elia didn't cry, but I did. She was always stronger than me." He sniffs, and Lyanna wants to reach out and wipe the tears from his face, "I would never ask you to do what I did. If what Bran says is true, then you'll be able to see your brother Ned one last time before the end…"

"Where would we go?" Lyanna asks, surprised to find that she's out of breath.

"South, to Dorne." Bran answers, "There's a place called the Tower of Joy. That is where you will give birth to Jon… My father will come for you then, but Rhaegar, the men most loyal to you will be there waiting for him to guard Lyanna as she gives birth. Ser Arthur Dayne fights and dies in combat against my father but Rhaegar, you won't be there…"

"Where will I be?" Rhaegar asks.

"You will be dead before then…"

"You told Lyanna how she died… can you give me the same courtesy?" Rhaegar asks.

"I still don't think that's a good idea." Bran grimaces. "If you know how you might try and change the way it happens and everything could—"

"I've made it this far without changing anything… Brandon Stark, you can trust me. Whatever you tell me, I won't go against it."

Bran gulps before giving in. "You die in combat with Robert Baratheon on the trident…"

"Oh." Rhaegar frowns, clearly shaken by this. "I see…"

"Robert will not be okay with this." Lyanna says, "He'll go to war with your father over me—he's a blustering fool who thinks we're in love. The man hardly even knows me… but I know him. He'd die to see you pay, he's already pissed about the tournament."

Bran says, "He will lead a rebellion… Robert will become King eventually. He'll make my father his Hand."

"Robert Baratheon? King of Westeros? No wonder the future needs saving." Lyanna grins in spite of the tears flowing down her cheeks. "Alright, you've bloody convinced me. I can't believe I'm agreeing to this…" Bran beams at her and suddenly flies in to hug her—and to both of their surprise he is successful. For a brief moment, Lyanna can even smell him—and feels his hair brush against her cheek. _He's my nephew… Somehow I just know it… Ned, I wish you could come with me._

"Are you _positive_?" Rhaegar asks.

Lyanna nods, standing up. "We should go before I change my mind or wake up from whatever dream I'm having… Can I at least let Howland out of my closet?"

"Howland must be the one who tells the others that it was I who abducted you. We must let him believe that to be true… I'm sorry, Lyanna, I know you care for the boy…" Rhaegar says.

"He told me he loved me yesterday." Lyanna sighs. "He's sweet and gentle, unlike most men… I suppose if it's for the best…"

Rhaegar stands and leads Bran and Lyanna (who finds a traveling cloak and puts it on for warmth) out into the hallway once more. Quietly they creep past Lyanna's room, where Howland can barely be heard sobbing inside. Then they pass her brother's, and she savors the sound of their snoring for it would be the last she ever heard of them. Finally, they descend the stairway down into the bar. The Stark guards are fast asleep, doubled over their tankards and drooling on the counter. The Innkeep glances up at them as Rhaegar leads Lyanna out into the cold, rainy night. Bran follows them, still linking their hands together, as they hurry through the pouring rain to Rhaegar's white stallion.

Rhaegar and Lyanna both turn and give Bran one final glance. "Will we ever see you again?" She asks.

"I don't know…" Bran admits, "Whatever happens now depends entirely on you two… I…" He hesitates, looking down into the mud. "I don't know what to say… _Thank you_. Thank you for believing me."

They release his hands as Rhaegar helps Lyanna climb aboard his horse. Rain clings to their clothing, pattering off the hood of Lyanna's cloak. Bran is nowhere to be found. As Rhaegar spurs the horse into motion, she casts one last long look up at the inn of the crossroads. _Goodbye, father… Brandon… Benjen… Howland… Ned… Please forgive me…_


	100. The Night King

The Night King

A thunderous crack echoes across the black long night. The giant wall of ice before him is starting to finally break. Huge chunks the size of houses cascade down, tearing apart every wight underneath, crushing portions of his army like insects. The Night King doesn't mind. For every few hundred that are demolished, a thousand more climb over their remains. They scurry up the ice like ants, striking it with whatever weapons they carry. The deepest of the fissures is stretching as his soldiers file, slash, chop, and claw away at it. Thousands of undead are nearly at the top of The Wall now, scaling each-other indiscriminately, making it their mission to climb over and deal with whatever Night's Watchmen that might be up there. It was only a matter of time...

The Night King and his three Lieutenants observe on their undead horses, snow whipping about their long, white beards. One of them had fallen twice in battle already, his aged, cracked, pale blue skin still has the scars from the two men who struck him down. The Night King brought him back, of course, but not without punishing the Lieutenant for his disgrace. The other two Lieutenants would learn from this as well. If they were to have sentience, they must earn it. Now the third Lieutenant has no control, no will of his own. He's just a puppet like the rest of the Night King's wights, yet an important one nevertheless. The four of them remain atop their mounts at bay, watching as another slice of The Wall gives way to the pressure. Those of his skeletal wights who get smashed apart by the falling ice gather their bones back up, reforming themselves, before continuing their work.

Atop The Wall, Dolorous Edd curses under his breath as the ice beneath his feet shakes and everything sways. Eventually the undead reach his position, climbing over the icy parapets, cackling manically. He draws out his sword and fights them off, kicking a few over the edge to send them back from whence they came. Harolt keeps blowing the horn down at Castle Black, watching as the few of them who are left gather in the courtyard by the gates. That's when Edd spots about a hundred soldiers riding from the south, each bearing the sigils of different northern houses—the Banner of House Stark flying primarily over all the rest. Reinforcements have come, but it's not what Dolorous Edd had expected. _Where are the Knights of the Vale?! There's supposed to be thousands of them coming…_

Several more skeletons shriek as they join his position aboard the crumbling ice, sprinting for Harolt and Edd with hatchets and swords raised. Harolt throws the horn at one, knocking its skull off its shoulders—but the body doesn't relent, and crushes Harolt's head in under the swing of its axe. Edd is surrounded, and knows this is the end. _"Bollocks."_ He curses, fighting them off as best he can. Before any can kill him, however, another crack splits down the ice—louder than all the rest—and suddenly Edd is no longer standing on The Wall but flying head over heels through the air as his world turns sideways. Tumbling hundreds of feet to his death, Lord Commander Dolorous Edd's screams turn into mad laughter—and his last word before he splats against the ground is, simply, _"FUUUUUUUUUCK!"_

The Wall groans as if dying as that gigantic fissure breaks away. Straight down the middle the ice forms a division leading all the way through—the ground between covered in huge, blue boulders. As it all comes crashing down into the earth, a cloud of white, snowy fog plumes forth from both sides. The Night's Watch are blinded before being crushed underneath the weight of the ice. Castle Black, in a manner of seconds, is swept away by the avalanche. The reinforcements riding for it stop in their tracks, watching the scene in horror and awe. Never in their lives have they ever witnessed such devastation.

The hole in The Wall is only a hundred feet wide, stretching all the way from the top to the bottom. Huge pillars of ice spike up around the base of the opening… and as the snowy mist begins to settle, The Night King and his army of the dead appear, their horses striding over the hill of ice the wights had forged.

" _FOR THE NORTH!"_ bellows the reinforcements in unison, unleashing their swords and spurring their horses forward, fear and bravery in their hearts.

It's hardly a battle, but a massacre, and it's over within seconds. Their steeds clash with the undead, tearing through their lines before being overwhelmed by the sheer number of them. Wights are falling straight out of the sky from the top of The Wall itself, crushing whoever's unlucky enough to be fighting beneath it. Gigantic, lumbering, white bears tear apart every man in their path, guts dragging through the snow underneath their fat, furry bellies. A man from House Mormont is the last man standing, and it isn't until one of the White Walker lieutenants plunges his icy sword through his belly that he falls to his knees.

Like all who fall beneath the Night King's eyes, they're soon back up on their feet, eyes as blue as winter roses.

The King of Night looks to the vast army of undead around him and lifts his scythe up to the sky, pointing it southward. A silent command is issued, and every one of his five hundred thousand corpses sprints through the snow with only one destination in mind.

 _Winterfell._


	101. Brienne VI

Brienne

After five days of rest, Brienne bids the farmer and his family of seven children farewell. When the farmer found Brienne stumbling through the snow half-dead from exhaustion, he was in the middle of coming home from Winterfell in the north, driving a wagon of goods to keep them fed for the next month. The winter had made it impossible to grow crops. He bundled her up in a wool cloak to keep her warm and promised her a place in his home until she was fit for travel. He even bandaged and cleaned the wound on her arm—all without Brienne ever saying a word to him. The farmer asked for nothing in return, and when she asked why he'd saved her, he simply replied, " _It's the right thing to do._ 'Sides, my children would hardly forgive me, leaving a lady in the snow like that."

"I'm no lady." Brienne had replied then before thanking him for his hospitality. The farmer's name was Willem, and he'd questioned her about her wound and why she was out in the winter on her own with hardly any clothes and nothing to protect herself with. "I was doing my duty for Lady Stark. On my return, I was ambushed by Crannogmen." The farmer had spat at this, and said the Crannogmen are a nasty lot, abducting strangers off the road out of paranoia like that. After three days, Brienne's arm was healing and she felt strong enough to travel again by the fifth day, even though the farmer said she could stay longer if she liked. Brienne thanked him, but pardons herself, for she must return to Lady Sansa. Saying goodbye to all the children had been the hardest part. The boys especially loved to sit and listen to stories about her adventures as a Knight _._

Winterfell's still five days' travel by horse, and at least two weeks by foot. She would need to stop somewhere first to try and find shelter during the night and maybe a horse—though the Crannogmen had taken all her money… And the longer the blizzard rages, the more alone Brienne feels, stranded out in the blinding white. She trudges along, setting camps up under the thickest trees she could find—but it's so cold and windy that starting a fire with only sticks is out of the question, so Brienne would huddle up in the blanket Willem had given her and she slept like that during the nights… It was significantly better than sleeping in a pit full of her own filth, anyway.

After several days, Brienne arrives at a familiar location she traveled by once with Podrick while tracking Sansa… The towering, abandoned fortress of Moat Cailin stands stoically on its hill in the center of an icy bog. Every step sinks her leg two feet deep into the snow as she crosses the massive field toward the huge, abandoned castle above. This was the closest fortress to Greywater Watch, so she half expects to find Crannogmen inside…

Halfway across the snowy field, Brienne comes to a stop, her jaw dropping in horror.

From far away, she hadn't noticed them, but now that she's standing here, she sees hundreds of bodies haphazardly buried in the snow. Arms, legs, and heads barely visible under the blanket of white powder lay scattered about, blood frozen to their clothing and armor… _What the hell happened here?_ Brienne slowly keeps going, and feels something crack underneath her boot. She stifles a shout when she lifts her foot and finds the crushed skull of a dead wildling woman beneath her.

The longer she walks, the more corpses she discovers. She investigates them to find deep stab wounds she recognizes to be from the three-pronged spears that the Crannogmen used. _This must've just happened. Maybe even just a few hours ago… But who did this?_

Bright red hair catches her attention, and Brienne kneels down beside a half-buried corpse, lifting his face out of the snow gently, recognizing Tormund Giantsbane _. He's the one who kept giving me those odd looks back in Castle Black. He was a Wildling leader… Why would someone wipe out all the Wildlings?_ Brienne frowns, lying his head back down but turning it so that it was no longer face-planted in the snow. Brienne had no love for wildlings, but this man had been Jon Snow's comrade… and despite his strangeness, he'd been kind to her.

And then she saw the white direwolf lying beside a grey direwolf, blood in both of their fur staining the snow red… Tears form in Brienne's eyes as she kneels beside Ghost and gently pats his wet fur, a small part of her hoping… but the poor beast is unresponsive… Brienne looks at the grey direwolf, and knows it to be the same one Howland Reed had under his control. _So this was definitely the Crannogmen's doing… If Ghost is here, then…_

Not far from the direwolves, Brienne finds him.

Jon Snow's face is half covered in blood and snow while the other half looks like it's peacefully sleeping, his eyes and mouth sealed shut. His black, curly hair clings to his frozen, pale face, and when Brienne kneels down, she can tell right away there's no saving him. _He's dead._ Brienne can hardly believe her eyes. _Howland… you monster… How could you do this?_ There's a deep cavity in his chest where he'd been stabbed through the heart. _Just like Renly…_ Brienne can't help but sob, wiping her face with her gloved hand. _Sansa, she can't be here too, can she?_ _No, please Gods, no…_ Brienne stands, about to begin searching, even if she has to dig up every last body—but before she can start, the galloping of hooves and the shouting of men riding from the south catches her attention.


	102. Jaime VI

Jaime

If someone had told him he would find Brienne standing in the middle of a snowy field surrounded by dead bodies that day, Jaime would've slapped them with his golden hand and called them a liar; yet as he rides his horse into Moat Cailin's bog, his eyes catch sight of the unmistakable, large woman in the distance. Several of the Brotherhood without Banners shout warnings and point at her. Jaime rides ahead of them as fast as he can, determined to get to her first.

" _Brienne!"_ Jaime calls, his horse kicking up snow, "What are you doing here?"

Brienne doesn't respond, she just stands there looking lost… Once he's up close and dismounting his horse, Jaime can tell there is something very wrong here—Brienne's expression says it all. Immediately he rushes to her before any of the others arrive. Brienne wipes her eyes as he grasps her shoulder. " _Brienne?_ Are you alright?"

She gestures down by her feet, and Jaime lays eyes upon Jon Snow. At first it doesn't register with him that the King of the North is lying half buried beneath him, but then he recognizes his face... He's older than when Jaime last met him. Jon had been but a boy then, yet now he was a man grown. A scar over his eye, a black beard around his chin… Davos cries out and collapses down beside Jon's body, his face pale. _"No!"_ He wails, bawling in horror, " _No! No! How did this happen!?"_ He glares vehemently up at Brienne, almost accusingly. _"TELL ME!"_

"It was Howland Reed." Brienne says quietly, "I wasn't here, I just arrived…"

"Oh Gods…" Thoros of Myr sighs, grimacing down at Jon's corpse. "We were too late…"

 _It appears someone beat me to it. Cersei will be pleased, at least._ "How do you know this was Howland Reed?" Jaime asks Brienne.

"He held me captive for weeks." she explains, "He despises the Targaryens and Jon is…well, he said Jon was…"

" _No…"_ Davos sobs, "This can't be… not again…"

Jaime has eyes only for Brienne. "He held you _captive?_ Why?"

"I told him I was loyal to Jon because he's Sansa's family…" Brienne looks around at the countless bodies around them, pain-stricken, "Sansa could be here somewhere. I have to look…"

"My men will look for you." Beric Dondarrion says, his expression as hard as stone as his one eye glares down at Jon Snow's corpse… He nods to his men and they all dismount and begin searching. "Tell me more about this Howland Reed."

"First tell me who _you_ are." Brienne narrows her eyes at him suspiciously.

"They are the Brotherhood without Banners." Jaime tells her, "Beric Dondarrion is their leader. They _were_ traveling north to meet with Jon and swear fealty."

"Howland Reed was supposed to be loyal to the Starks too," Brienne says, "What about you, Jaime? Why are you here?"

Jaime sighs, glancing down at Jon again. "Cersei sent me to… no, it doesn't matter." _I can't tell them, not even Brienne, especially now._

"Why was Jon out here and not in Winterfell?" Thoros questions, kneeling down beside Jon's head and inspecting his wound. "It doesn't make sense…"

"I don't know." Brienne sadly admits.

Davos is weeping beside himself, clutching Jon's hand in his own. Jaime hardly knows the man, but after traveling on the road with him for a few days, Jaime had come to respect Davos Seaworth. Seeing him like this angers him. _What can I say? How can I possibly help him? What do I even do from here? With Jon dead, the only head I have left to collect is Sansa's…_

Davos abruptly looks to Thoros and says, " _You._ You're a… a priest for the Lord of Light, are you not?"

Thoros eyes Beric before nodding. "Aye. I am…"

" _Then you can bring him back!"_ Davos shouts desperately, _"I've seen it! You can bring him back just like the Red Woman did!"_

"I'm afraid not," Thoros says, grimly shaking his head, "There's only one man I can bring back. He's standing behind you."

"What are you trying to say?" Jaime asks with a cocked eyebrow, growing more and more confused.

"Thoros." Beric Dondarrion says sternly, ignoring Jaime, _"It's time."_

Thoros' mouth drops in dismay and he stands up, facing Beric with tears in his eyes all of the sudden. "No… _No way_. You _can't_ mean it."

"I do." Beric says bitterly. "This is why we are here, my friend."

" _No!"_ Thoros shouts, _"If you do this I can't bring you back again!"_

"Someone mind explaining what you're going on about?" Brienne snaps.

Thoros glares at them angrily, shaking his head, before grabbing a hold of Dondarrion by his shoulders. "No. I won't do it, Beric. I won't."

"You must." Beric says, embracing Thoros tightly. Thoros begins to weep and moan, clutching onto Beric like a child. Beric says, "The Lord of Light has given me more life than I deserve. I'm _tired_ , Thoros… This is why we're here. This is the Lord of Light's will. _You must understand_ …"

" _I can't lose you!"_ Thoros pleads, " _Please. You're_ _my brother!_ _I love you,_ _Beric!_ "

"And I you, Thoros." Beric smiles, then leans in and kisses his cheek. When he pulls away, he whispers, "You _know_ I'm right."

" _Damn the Gods."_ Thoros swears, furiously rubbing his eyes as Beric lets him go and kneels down beside Jon. Thoros kneels next to him, still crying openly. Davos backs up beside Jaime, who is absolutely bewildered. Jaime looks to Brienne to see if she understands what's going on, but she's giving him the exact same look.

" _Lord of Light, hear my prayer."_ Beric whispers, unsheathing a dagger and unfurling the sleeve of his right hand, reveal a scar traveling up his forearm. _"Bear witness to my sacrifice and bring back this child from the darkness."_ He slashes his wrist and blood spills down onto Jon's face. He then guides his wrist over Jon's heart and watches as his blood drips down into it depths.

Jaime steps back aghast, _"What the hell are you doing?!"_

" _Shut it!"_ Thoros growls at him before turning his attention to Beric. The two men smile bitterly at one-another and lean their heads in, joining foreheads. Thoros whimpers and splutters as he says, "I'll never forget you, my friend."

Beric's face is already draining of color as his life blood spills out of him. He lies back, collapsing in Thoros' arms. The Red Priest watches Beric's single eye gently slide shut. Beric Dondarrion's last words are a whisper that only Thoros can hear…

"Did he _really_ just kill himself?" Jaime exclaims in disbelief.

Davos suddenly snatches him by the arm. Jaime turns and sees the old man is full of rage. _"Don't interfere."_

Jaime opens his mouth to retort, but finds himself unable to. Whatever is going on, the other Brotherhood members are all watching in silent mourning… Thoros releases Beric Dondarrion and crawls over Jon, pulling his body up and wrapping him in his arms. " _Oh Lord, cast your light upon this man, your servant. Bring him back from death and darkness. His flame has been extinguished, restore it!"_ Thoros prays, repeating it again and again in a hushed voice in Jon's ear. The longer he watches, the more convinced Jaime became that Beric and Thoros were both completely mad. _I've had enough of this._ Jaime shakes his head, about to turn around, and says, "I can't watch this mummer's farce go on any longer—"

Jon Snow gasps to life as air fills his lungs and his eyes fly open. He jerks around in Thoros' arms, coughing heavily like he had just been rescued from drowning, his face slick with sweat and Beric's blood. Both Thoros and Davos cry out with joy; Brienne screams in shock, her hand over her mouth and her eyes bulging. Jaime alone doesn't move or make a sound. He can only stand there and watch as the once dead King of the North is helped up to his feet, clutching his chest and shivering. Jon looks terrified and confused, much like the boy he once was. His eyes land on Davos first, then Thoros, then Jaime and Brienne.

"Who… where… _what's going on?_ " Jon asks, his voice sounding hoarse, like he'd just ran all the way here from Winterfell. He takes his trembling hand away from his chest and beholds blood smeared across his fingertips. Thoros helps wipe Jon's face off, tears still streaming down his cheeks as he grins down at his King. Jon shoves him away, backing up from everyone slowly. _"Who are you people!?"_

"Jon, calm down." Davos says, "Do you remember me?"

Jon blinks, gawking in fear… then… "Davos?"

Davos smiles and nods with relief. Jaime on the other hand doesn't know what to think. _This must be some sort of trick. He was dead. Or was he? Was this all a show just to deceive me? But why? What reason? No. There's too many people here. But this can't be real. This can't be._

Thoros says, "Beric Dondarrion sacrificed his life so that you would return, my King."

Jon just shakes his head, then looks down at Beric's body in the snow. He says, "You're the Brotherhood..."

"Aye."

"Where's Howland Reed?" Jon turns and glowers around the field at all the other bodies. "He was here."

Brienne answers, "He's not anymore. What _happened_ , Jon?"

"We were ambushed." Jon says sickly, unable to stand any longer and sitting down again in the snow, still trying to catch his breath. He looks like a man who didn't want to be there, like he didn't belong... "Howland Reed and his men. There were _thousands_ of them… They were even hiding under the snow, waiting for us… like they _knew_ we would be coming…"

"Why were you out here in the first place?" Davos asks him.

Jon grimaces. "I'm no longer _King of the North_. The Northern Lords all decided a Targaryen was not fit to rule. Sansa is Queen now."

" _What?!"_ Brienne shouts, baffled. _"Sansa? Queen?"_

Jon nods grimly. "Aye."

"But Jon, you're not truly a Targaryen, are you?"

"I am. Bran told me…" Jon says.

"And you believe him?" Davos raises his eyebrows.

"Howland said the same thing." Brienne says, "If it's true, then why did you tell the other Lords this? You must've known they wouldn't approve?"

"Aye, but I didn't have a choice." Jon glares up at her. "Sansa wanted power, so she told them."

"You could have denied it, Your Grace…" Davos says.

"I'm not _Your Grace_ , anymore, Davos. Just Jon… And I wasn't going to keep lying to them. They deserved to have a choice." Jon sighs, standing up again and touching the hole in his chest with a disturbed expression. Jaime notices it's no longer bleeding… in fact, the wound had completely sealed itself. _This has to be a dream. There's no way this can be possible._

"I was on my way to find Daenerys Targaryen." Jon continues, "Sansa forced every Wildling in Winterfell to leave with me… Now they're all dead."

"No… Sansa wouldn't do this…" Brienne mutters.

"I'm telling you, she did." Jon scowls, visibly angry and hurt.

"She couldn't have known this would happen." Brienne says defensively. "She wouldn't."

Jon doesn't respond. Instead he leans down and picks up Longclaw, sliding it back in his sheath. Eventually he says, "Whether or not she knew, she still betrayed me."

"She's your sister!" Brienne snaps, "She wouldn't do this without a reason!"

"Actually she's my cousin." Jon returns coldly. "And I don't know her anymore, nor do I wish to. She has what she wants. As far as I'm concerned, she can keep it. I don't care."

Brienne scowls at him, tears resuming in her eyes. "I won't believe it. I can't. I have to find Sansa. If she's not here then she must still be at Winterfell. If Howland Reed is on his way there then I have to rescue her before it's too late."

"Go ahead." Jon says, "I wish you the best of luck. I won't be going back, though."

"Where then?" Thoros asks.

"Daenerys Targaryen." Jon answers, "She's _the answer._ She has dragons, _three_ of them. I don't care if any of you believe me or not. I'll go alone if I have to."

Jaime's still at a loss for words, the conversation taking place before him hardly registering in his mind.

"The Brotherhood is yours, as am I." Thoros says to Jon.

"You'll always have my support, Jon." Davos says as well.

Jon nods to them without smiling, then lays eyes upon Jaime…

"What about you?" Jon asks.

Jaime frowns, his heart beating in his ears. "What about me?"

"Who are you?" Jon steps closer to him, eyeing his Lannister armor, his hand around the hilt of his sword. _He doesn't remember me. Surprising. Most people don't forget the face of The Kingslayer._

Davos clears his throat. "This is Jaime Lannister… He's come to see you on behalf of Queen Cersei."

He can't help it, laughter bursts out of Jaime. He clutches his sides, tears in his eyes, unable to prevent the laughter gushing out of him. It was just all so… _ridiculous!_ Everyone stares at him, waiting for Jaime to settle down. _How am I the only one laughing at this?!_ When he finally ceases, he wipes his eyes and says, "This has been _quite_ the show. I don't know what sort of _game_ this is, but I'm not falling for it."

"I don't blame you." Jon says, and he smirks for the first time since coming back. "Believe it or not, this is the _second_ time I've come back to life, _Lannister_."

" _I'm sure it is."_ Jaime says dismissively. "Davos is correct, I'm here to see the King of the North. But considering you're no longer the King, I don't really see any need to talk to you at all anymore."

" _What?!"_ Davos shouts, "But Jaime? What about—"

"My sister sent me here to make peace with the ruler of the north, whoever that may be." Jaime interrupts. "As great as this farce was, I'm afraid I've wasted enough time here. Unless you plan on stopping me, I think I will continue traveling north to Winterfell to meet this new Queen."

"No one will stop you." Jon tells him. "I have no interest in starting a war with the Lannisters. My sister on the other hand might not be so understanding."

"Well I have a lifetime experience dealing with irrational sisters." Jaime smiles. "I'll take my chances." He looks at Brienne and asks, "Would you like to accompany me?"

Brienne just nods, her eyes down at her feet, deep in thought. _She's clearly troubled by this news of Sansa._ _She takes her duty way too seriously. Gotta respect her for it, though._

Jon says to Jaime, "I'll be heading for King's Landing. That's where Daenerys Targaryen is said to make landfall. She could even be there right now. Are you sure you don't wish to ride with us?"

" _Right."_ Jaime rolls his eyes. He knows Daenerys Targaryen _exists_ , but the last he's heard she's just some girl who freed slaves across the narrow sea. Rumors of her dragons had also reached his ears, but like all myths and fantasies, Jaime doesn't believe them. Her army of 8,000 Unsullied didn't stand a chance against the Crown's combined forces of 60,000. "Good luck finding your Dragon Queen, Jon Snow. Perhaps if you're lucky Cersei won't have your head on a spike by the time I return. Then again, apparently Thoros can just bring you back, so who knows. Maybe we can share a drink someday."

Thoros just shakes his head, scowling at Jaime while Jon proceeds over to where Ghost lay dead in the snow beside the other direwolf… He reaches out and strokes Ghost's face, tears in his eyes. "I'm sorry I couldn't save you, my friend." He whispers to the white wolf, "Thank you for being there for me, for looking after me all these years. I'll never forget you…"

He then looks to the grey direwolf and remembers how the wolf had cried after he plunged his sword through her. " _Nymeria_ … that's what she named you, right?" He pets her fur as well, even though she couldn't feel it… "If I ever find Arya again, I'll let her know you were _proud_ and _strong_ , even in death."

"Brienne, as much fun as I'm having, I say we take our leave." Jaime says, turning to approach his horse. "You can ride with me, since it would appear you don't have a horse."

Brienne follows and he helps her up after him. His heart quickens in his chest as she wraps her muscular arms around his midriff, holding onto him. When he looks back, he sees that Brienne is still crying silently. _What do I say? How do I comfort her?_ Jaime looks on to the snows ahead and spurs his horse forward, bidding farewell to Davos and Thoros, who wave goodbye and follow Jon Snow in the opposite direction. _There's no sense in trying to fight him. When Jon arrives in King's Landing, my sister will be more than happy to take his head herself… Just like Bronn's… Besides, the Brotherhood would cut me down where I stand if I tried anything. Still, how am I supposed to take The Queen of the North's head with her Swornsword next to me?_ Jaime gazes northward and decides to worry about that later, watching with unease as the skies ahead grow steadily darker…


	103. No One

No One

Marwyn the Mage prepares his brew with manic delight, huddled over the glowing, bright, blue potion in his chambers; grinning as he finishes adding the last ingredient, transforming the blue liquid into pure white. He doesn't notice the shadow of a man sneaking up behind him…

* * *

That night, Sam enters the top of the tower, standing in the same, circular room lined with bookshelves from when he first arrived at the citadel. Just like then, all of the old Maesters are sitting behind a desk in a line, their wrinkled, spotty expressions glowering over their cups of milk and honey as Sam clears his throat nervously. "Hello," he greets them with a little wave. In the center of the table is Archmaester Archybald, and he does not appear happy at all to see him anymore. Ever since Sam's adventures with Marwyn, the once aloof Archmaester had taken a disliking to Sam.

"So, what have you brought for us, Samwell?" Archmaester Archybald smiles, though it's a quick one, and it falls back into a scowl immediately.

Like before, none of the other Maesters say a word. They take their goblets and drink from them, narrowly gazing at the young man in irritation. Sam gulps, and the door behind him groans open. Marwyn the Mage enters, smiling his usual mad smile. "Forgive the intrusion," he says, looking to the Archmaester apologetically, "I came to watch, on behalf of Sam. He's become somewhat of my pupil." In his hands is the Dragonglass candle from the room above them.

"Why did you bring that?" Archie asks, "It's supposed to stay up there where it belongs, Marwyn."

"Sam needs it for what he's going to show you." Marwyn says innocently, "Why fret, Archybald? It's not like you believe it works."

Archybald sighs begrudgingly, "You're welcome to stay, though if we have to suffer your madness, Marwyn, I _will_ ask you to leave."

"Understood, understood." Marwyn nods, hastily handing the glass candle to Sam, casting him a swift wink, before joining the Maesters at their table. That's when Sam notices something… _peculiar._ As the Maesters lift their cups of honey milk, take a drink, and lower it again, their lips become steadily bluer in hue. It dawns on Sam then why Marwyn instructed him to bring his Valyrian Steel sword, _Heartsbane_ , with him—and why Marwyn had brought the Glass Candle…

"So, what is it you have to show us, Sam?" Archybald asks, taking a drink as well, his lips just as blue as the other old, tired men around him. None of them have seemed to notice yet. Sam can't help but gape, not expecting this at all to be what Marwyn had in mind.

"I—um—I'm here to prove to you all today that, um, well…" Sam nervously sets the glass candle down on a wood pedestal, "To earn my chain in the higher mysteries, I'm going to prove to all of you today that _magic_ is real, that _dragons_ are real, and that _the white walkers_ are real."

The old men titter in their chairs, all except Archie and Marwyn, who are studying Sam's face with wildly different expressions. Archie appears irritated and angry, while Marwyn grins and nods for Sam to go on. Sam draws Heartsbane, struggling to hold it upright even with both hands. He then takes out the small vial of Wildfire Marwyn had given him to use… At the sight of the green bottle, the Maesters yield their chortling and gasp. " _You can't have that here!_ Do you realize how dangerous that substance is?!" one of them shouts.

"It's my gift to him." Marwyn says proudly, "He'll need it, now how about you all shut up and watch?"

"That's enough out of you, Marwyn." Archie warns, " _Wildfire is forbidden._ I _cannot_ allow this to continue." While he speaks, Sam pours the wildfire over the glass candle's shiny, smooth wick and then adds it to the edge of his blade. " _Stop this at once_ , Sam— _I… I…"_ Archie tries standing but stumbles, gripping his head, his eyes blinking rapidly. " _What…_ _what's going on?_ " He glares around at the other Maesters and sees their lips have all turned blue, their feeble, wizened eyes now wide with wonder, like children.

"I'm sorry, Archie." Sam grimaces, carefully prodding the tip of Heartsbane to the candle, _"Dra-Dracarys!"_

The candle illuminates with green flames that steadily grows wilder in size. Sam backs away, still clutching his family sword. The Maesters are taken aback, clinging to their armrests, their tongues hanging out of their mouths in awe as the wildfire roars and swirls around the wooden pedestal, but doesn't catch fire to anything. Marwyn's eyes are alight as the flames take shape and he, along with Archmaester Archybald and every Maester in the room are taken with Sam into another world—a realm far from their own, surrounded in dancing green fire.

"This is what happens when you use the Dragonglass candle correctly, Archmaester." Sam tells him. He can't see what they're seeing, for he's the only one in the room, it seems, who isn't on _Shade of the Evening_. For him, all he sees is the wildfire gently flickering on the candle. "I want you all to picture it now in your heads—Daenerys and her dragons. They are coming for Westeros as we speak, they might even be here for all I know. Go ahead, it doesn't take much, just imagine it in your… er… _mind's eye_."

" _Oh Gods…"_ Archie sits back down in his chair, trembling and crying as whatever he's envisioning fills him with fear. The other Maesters are all shaking in their seats as well, mumbling like terrified children to themselves. Sam wonders if he's made a mistake doing this. _They're all old, their bodies might not be able to handle the Evening…_ Sam glances at Marwyn, but he appears enthralled in whatever vision he's having, unconcerned with the others.

"She's coming, and her dragons are the only thing that can stop the White Walkers from killing us all." Sam tells them gravely, "I know none of you believe in them, but when you can see it with your own eyes, I believe your opinions will change."

Marwyn sees them—the great, winged beasts flying over King's Landing, breathing fire down upon the armies atop the walls. He sees a great many things, following this, and learns a secret that he keeps to himself… Marwyn looks at his fellow Maesters, and his manic grin falls into that of a blank, emotionless expression...

Archie and the others are doubling over, coughing up blood. Sam's mouth drops as Archmaester Archybald kicks his chair backward and kneels on the floor, unable to prevent the flow of blood pouring out of his mouth.

" _What's happening!? What's wrong with them?!_ " Sam asks in panic, abandoning the glass candle to rush over and kneel beside Archie. The old man grips his shoulder, and Sam recoils. Archie's eyes, nose, and ears leak crimson oil down his face. Unable to breathe, the old man can only sob and choke to his death. When Sam stands, all of the other Maesters are dead as well, some lying on the floor, others with their heads thrown back over their chairs as if in a deep slumber. Horrified and bewildered, Sam faces Marwyn the Mage, who slips off his face like a mask.

Someone Sam doesn't recognize stands before him now. He's a handsome man with long, dark red hair—a single white lock of hair hugs his bangs. His knowing eyes study the room without emotion, nor a trace of concern for the dead… _"Who are you?"_ Sam squeaks, backing up into a corner of the room, knocking over books on the shelf behind him.

"A man is no one." A man replies, striding across the room to the glass candle, watching the flames up close now, even though his lips are not blue, he can see what the fire is showing him.

Sam climbs to his feet, surrounded by corpses, shivering in terror, and asks, "Wh-Where's M-Marwyn?"

No One doesn't look away from the flames as he says, "Marwyn the Mage is with The Many-Faced God now."

" _W-Why? Did you… Did you do all this?"_ Sam clutches his sword.

The man suddenly approaches Sam, and he's too paralyzed with fear to react, but No One simply lifts his hand and asks, "May _a man_ see that _sword_ for a moment?"

Sam hugs it closer. "No, a man may not see this sword. Who the bloody hell are you?!"

The man smiles serenely, "You may call a man Jaqen H'ghar, if having a name eases you. Your father hired my talents."

"My- _my father?!"_ Sam blurts out, lowering his guard. "Why? I don't understand?"

"A man is a _Faceless_ Man," The man named Jaqen explains, still not lowering his hand. "A man was asked to kill you, Samwell Tarly, and take that sword as payment. It's a family heirloom, is it not? Valyrian Steel has its uses, a man thought, but it was the location of the target that intrigued a man above all. Does Samwell Tarly know what this place truly is? Who these people that call themselves Maesters really are?"

Sam points the end of Heartsbane at Jaqen's chest. "I don't care what you say—you killed Marwyn, you killed Archie—and y-you're here to kill me, so why haven't you done it!? _Why shouldn't I k-kill you right now!?_ "

"If a man was still going to kill Samwell, Samwell would not be speaking with a man." Jaqen smiles coyly, still beckoning to be handed the sword, the Valyrian Steel glistening with a light coating of wildfire. He appears unafraid by the point of the sword resting against his chest. Sam knows that if he willed it, he could push his sword through the man and put an end to this insanity once and for all… but he hesitates.

"Why? What's all this about?" Sam asks.

"Before Marwyn the Mage died, a man spoke with him. Marwyn told a man a great deal about a girl named Daenerys Targaryen and her three dragons. According to Marwyn's brother, Daenerys has arrived in King's Landing at last. Marwyn told a man about _Samwell Tarly_ , and how of all the Maesters in the citadel, Samwell Tarly is the only man who knows the truth about The White Walkers… A man became curious, after this. So, a man is keeping Samwell Tarly alive, because a Valyrian Steel sword is only as valuable as the man wielding it, and Samwell Tarly might just be a man worth living a little while longer."

"So, what then, you'll kill me when I'm no longer useful to you?" Sam spits, his cheeks red with anger. "Why is it alright to keep me alive, _but kill all the other Maesters_?! You weren't even hired to do it! _So why!?_ "

"Give a man that sword, and Samwell will know."

Sam debates it, standing with Heartsbane pressed to Jaqen's chest, sweating profusely all over himself. _He's right, he could've killed me already. This guy… he's an assassin. He stole Marwyn's face and tricked us all with it… he poisoned the Shade of the Evening and killed all the Maesters…_ Sam lowers his sword and hands it to him, keeping his distance. Jaqen lifts Heartsbane in one hand and returns to the glass candle.

"The Faceless Men have always stayed out of the world's affairs…" Jaqen H'ghar says stoically, lowering the tip of the Valyrian Steel to the candle's flickering, green flames. "The Maesters of the citadel made it their lifelong duty to do the opposite. For centuries, Maesters have ensured that all forms of magic were erased from Westeros. It was Archmaester Archybald responsible for the Tragedy at Summerhall, when King Aegon attempted to bring back Dragons with eggs in a fire—A man saw with his own eyes as the Archmaester sabotaged the flames with wildfire. The Maesters despise magic and everything it can do, whether it's for the good or the bad. No longer will Maesters shelter the truth. _Magic_ , Samwell, is the key to defeating the White Walkers. Dragons are magical by nature, so Samwell was on the right track."

"But… why do you _care_ what happens?" Sam asks, "Like you said, The Faceless Men don't care about things like this. You people, you kill whoever someone pays you to without question, so why now are you going back on that? Why do you care what happens to all of us?"

Jaqen smiles warmly and says, "There's only _one_ girl in Westeros a man cares about, not Samwell, not Daenerys, not anyone else. Only one."

 _A girl? He's doing all of this for a girl?_ Sam watches as Jaqen lowers his gaze over the flames and says, _"Valar Morghulis."_

The wildfire comes to life before Sam's eyes, encircling them, catching the bookshelves on fire as well as the ceiling. Sam cries and flees to the door. Jaqen joins him, and the two escape down the spiraling stone steps as the wildfire grows bigger and stormier around the candle, consuming the bodies on the floor—filling up the entire room.

" _Why did you do that!?"_ Sam asks as they run, trying hard not to trip and fall down the stairs.

"None of these books have any value, Samwell. The Maesters made sure to burn anything that might hint at using magic. This tower is a monument to their lies." Jaqen speaks as though he's simply stating a fact. Smoke begins to fill the narrow corridor they're in. Sam can't believe how quickly it's all falling apart. _I was so close to being a Maester…_

When they reach the library, Jaqen hands Samwell back his sword. Sam yanks it away and sheaths it, glaring heatedly up at the Faceless Man while the ceiling above them melts away. "I can't believe you! Whoever you fucking are, you've just gone and ruined everything!"

Jaqen smiles, "A man has ruined nothing. If Samwell wishes to stay in Oldtown with his lover and child, then Samwell is free to do so. A man will journey next for King's Landing. If Samwell wishes to accompany a man, and find out just how useful Samwell's life can be, then Samwell is more than welcome to join a man."

"So… you're _not_ going to kill me?" Sam asks.

Jaqen just shakes his head and leads him out into the lobby where the bookish secretary sit behind a desk with his huge reading spectacles. At their approach, the secretary turns his nose up at them and scowls. Jaqen is wearing Marwyn the Mage's robes still, and Sam is covered in Archmaester Archybald's lifeblood. A draft of black smoke follows them out as well, and the secretary's jaw drops. _"What did you do?"_ he asks, standing up and glaring accusingly at Sam.

Jaqen H'ghar approaches the desk and before Sam can say a word to stop him, the red-haired assassin draws a dagger from beneath his sleeve and slits the secretary's neck open. The glasses fall from his nose as the bewildered secretary slumps over to the floor, clutching his throat, gagging.

" _You didn't have to do that! He's not a Maester!"_ Samwell shouts in horror.

"A man cannot leave witnesses." is all Jaqen says, slipping the dagger back inside his robes, gesturing for Sam to keep following. _If you can't leave witnesses, then what am I?_ They leave the tower, out into the dark, wintery night. The cobblestones are sheeted in snow, and a cold, blistery air turns Sam's face even redder than before. Jaqen seems undisturbed by the cold, and leads him down a winding road while the people of Oldtown gawk and point up at the tower.

The wildfire is growing, bursting out every window, ensnaring the walls in thick, green flames. Sam watches it as they walk, and asks Jaqen over his shoulder, "Where are we going now?"

"To find Samwell's family."

"How do you know about _her_?"

"It's a man's job to know their target."

" _Ok_ , that doesn't answer anything." Sam mutters irritably, "How do you know where she is right now? Not even I know that."

"Many men in Oldtown know where the woman named Gilly works…" Jaqen tells him mysteriously. He eyes Sam with a pitying look, putting him on edge. "Perhaps it best if we leave Gilly behind…"

"How could you say that? That's not happening, I'm not leaving her anywhere!"

"Then Samwell must face the consequences…" Jaqen sighs, and he leads Sam further down toward the wharfs, coming upon a large building draped in crimson around its windows. _The Hog's Wash_ , it reads…

 _A Brothel… No… Gilly…_ Sam freezes on the spot, the burning tower crackling behind him, more and more people clogging up the streets to watch. The reality of the situation sinks in, and Sam collapses to his knees. _Everything's falling apart. Somehow, in just one night…_

"Samwell…" Jaqen looks down at him with concern. "Would you prefer a man's assistance in this task?"

"This isn't true…" Sam mutters weakly, "She can't be… not here…"

If not for Little Sam suddenly wailing inside, Sam might've stayed there on the ground—but as soon as he hears the baby's cries, Sam springs to his feet and runs through the drapes. The secretary for this establishment is a gangly woman, her breasts nearly exposed underneath a red lace gown. Sam flies up to her in a flurry and yells, _"Where is he?! Where's my baby!?"_

The woman gives him a snarl, "Who the fuck do _you_ think you are, _coming in here like that?_ Get out of here before I call the guards."

"The guards are a little busy right now, and I don't have time to be dealing with the likes of you! Where's Little Sam! _I can hear him!_ I'm his _father_ , let me see him!"

A woman appears holding Little Sam in her arms, but she's not Gilly. Sam rushes in and takes the baby gingerly, but the mistress tries to keep hold of him. "I cannot just allow you to take one of my girl's children, good man."

"He's _my_ baby," Sam insists, not putting up with any more horseshit tonight. "Where is Gilly? _She'll tell you!_ "

"She's _working_." coldly replies the mistress, her heavily made-up eyes glaring down into his. Sam's heart sinks, but he doesn't let go of Little Sam, who continues to wail in the stranger's arms.

"Where? Let me see her." Sam growls.

"I can't let you do that, she's with a very high-paying customer at the moment. Her talents have proved quite useful." The mistress' smirk snaps something in Sam's brain. He lets her go and, without warning, bolts past her. The mistress screams for the guards but Sam doesn't care—he flies down the corridor full of moans coming from behind every closed door.

" _Gilly!"_ Sam calls desperately, his legs exhausted. He slams into a door, running inside one of the occupied rooms, finding three women and a man, who throws a heavy boot at him and yells, _"Get the fuck out of here, can't you see I'm busy?!"_ Sam scans the women quickly, but none of them look like Gilly, so he leaves without even apologizing.

Sam kicks open the next door and there's two men in here. One smiles and asks if Sam would like to join them. Sam bows out, tears in his eyes. _Where is she?!_ The closer he gets, the harder his heart hammers in his ears. He dreads what he'll find, but he knows he has to see her with his own eyes just to believe it's true.

When he finds the right room, Sam stops in the doorway, blinking in disbelief. There's Gilly, spread out on the bed, with her arms and legs tied to posts, with two men on either side pumping into her, grunting, spanking her, throttling her head… Sam doesn't see anything past this, all he sees is red. All he hears is the sound of his own, anguished scream. The petrified look on Gilly's face says it all, and before either of the men can do anything, Sam has Heartsbane drawn, running into the man who has his cock down Gilly's throat.

The Valyrian Steel plunges clean through his spine and out his chest, splashing Gilly and the man inside of her ass with his blood. The handsome, black-haired, young man, gawks down at the blade sticking out of his chest, watching his own heart plummet down and bounce off of Gilly's shoulders in two little, red chunks. What Sam forgets is that Heartsbane is still covered in residual wildfire, and when it mixes with the man's blood, the sword alights with green flames, consuming the naked man. Sam yanks his burning sword out as he falls to the floor in a heap, his cock still dripping with Gilly's saliva.

" _What the fuck!?"_ the other, much fatter, naked man screams, wiping the blood out of his eyes and pulling out. He tries to reach for his own sword lying beside the bed, but Sam is ready. He lifts his green, burning sword up high, then slashes it down over the man's outstretched arm, cutting it off at the elbow. The wildfire spreads onto his now gushing stump, and he whirls backward into one of the window dressers, screaming in a panic as the flames devour his body.

" _Sam!"_ Gilly yells, unable to move, her legs and arms still tied to each corner of the blood-washed bed. She jerks around, trying to free herself. Sam just gapes at what he's done, Heartsbane swimming beneath the wildfire in his hands, casting the room in a bright, green glow.

Jaqen H'ghar enters the room like a shadow, silently observing the two burning corpses, and how the wildfire was already catching onto the drapes. "Samwell, it's not safe here."

" _You think I don't know that!?"_ Sam snaps at him, "How do you stop this thing from burning?!"

Jaqen cuts his bare hand with the dagger he used to kill the secretary at the tower, takes Heartsbane, and caresses the air just above the flickering flames, his lifeblood dripping into the fire along the Valyrian Steel, evaporating within as he whispers the words, " _Valar Dohaeris_." Sam watches, briefly distracted from his pain, as the Faceless Man's blood magic goes into effect, the flames around Heartsbane die.

Sam takes the dagger from Jaqen and cuts the bindings around Gilly's hands and legs. "What's going on?" She asks him nervously, reaching for her clothes before the growing blaze of wildfire could catch it. "Sam, _who is this man?_ "

"Don't—just _don't talk to me_ right now, Gilly." Sam growls, unable to look her in the eye. "Just get dressed out in the hall, we have to go before this whole place burns down."

"You _murdered_ those men, Sam!" Gilly says, "One of them was a Lord from some House, I can't remember which, but he's rich—the guards won't let you get away with this!"

" _Never mind all that!_ Gilly! _Get dressed!_ We can talk about all this later!" Sam hears himself shout at her, and watches as the woman he loves recoils…

In the end, they leave. Gilly dresses and Sam takes Little Sam from the stunned mistress and her secretary. Jaqen smiles at them, and Sam says, " _Don't you even think about it_. No more bloody killings for one night."

They head up the streets, avoiding passerby guards on their way to the tower. Gilly stops, clutching Little Sam to her breast, and gawks up at the inferno raging over the city. The whole tower is up in green flames now, catching onto several buildings in the vicinity… Jaqen H'ghar admires his work as they rest near a grove of trees on the outskirts of Oldtown, hidden under the night sky.

"The fire will spread… it's killing people… Sam… _what happened_?" Gilly asks him, yet Sam can't even reply. He collapses against one of the trees and passes out. Gilly kneels beside him and tries to get him to wake while Little Sam wails on and on.

Jaqen H'ghar watches as the great tower of Oldtown releases a dying _crack!_ that splits across the sky before crumbling down into the sea, crushing the dockyard as well as hundreds of innocent bystanders beneath it. As the wildfire spreads across Oldtown, Jaqen's smile falls into a dark frown. _This is the Many-Faced God's will. All men must die… A man is sorry, Samwell. A man has not been completely honest… In time, Samwell, perhaps a man will tell you everything._

* * *

 **Letter from the Author:**

 _That's a wrap on Season 7!_

I want to thank all of you who've read this far, especially those of you who read the first draft and still kept up with the updates. **I'm excited to announce that Season 8 will be starting _in the next couple of days after I post this_ _._** Thank you all once again, you have no idea how grateful I am for your support. I spend _WAY_ too much of my time thinking about this _fanfiction_ , and it means a lot to me knowing there's people out there enjoying the hard work I put into making this thing. I do it for fun, and you guys help make it fun.

Leave a review, ask me questions, strike up a debate if you want, I'm always open for discussing my story (or just Game of Thrones in general) with anyone through private messaging. Thank you all once again, and look forward to more soon!

 _-Wemoleitch_


	104. Season 8

**Season 8 has begun, you can find it at my profile page!**


	105. CALLING ALL READERS!

HI EVERYONE!

So I have a request to all of you guys who might've enjoyed this story enough to follow me. I know it's been a while but here I am on my hands and knees, asking any and all who might be interested in giving my original work some feedback and constructive criticism. It's a story entitled OUR DYING WORLD and you can find it on my profile. I put it on here under the walking dead fandom but it won't be there for long since it technically isn't fanfiction. If you are interested in doing me this huge favor, send me a DM and I can send you updates that way, or through e-mail, whichever is easiest.

Thank you all and have a good day.


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